The Book of Thieves
by CreativeRaccoon
Summary: A terrible new weapon is tested beneath a remote South-Pacific island. Meanwhile, in the jungles of Mexico, the search for a dangerous secret is underway. In Paris a criminal organisation is plotting to hold the free world to ransom. And only one man, a thief, is the key to it all. They call him Sly Cooper... The game has begun. Part I of The Thievius Raccoonus Trilogy.
1. Prologue - The Eye of Anubis

**Prologue: The Eye of Anubis.**

**Author's Note: This prologue is almost purely for the purpose of building up the general feel and plot of the story. It is not required that you read this to understand major plot points. Any plot points seen here are largely planned for future stories. If you don't like this, feel free to skip to Chapter 1 - Part 1.**

**Ancient Egypt - f****ifth dynasty: 2417.B.C.**

The emerald glowed like a sea with a thousand facets in the flickering light of the torch flame. With tensioned and nervous gasps, giving short and rasping breaths, the shadowy figure tugged once, twice and then three times on the straw rope to which it was tethered. Above the shadow, a square of brilliantly silver moonlight shone in a ghostly manner through a square opening in the roof. Through this opening the rope began to descend, clearly begun strung out be another unseen figure. The first figure gave another slighter, silent gasp as a fine trickle of sandstone rubbed from the roof's edge trickled down and pattered softly onto the stone floor, several metres below. A slight jolt in the tension of the rope caused the figure to whimper slightly as the palm pith and reed torch bobbed and the flame briefly wavered. Steadying the shaking light with a free hand, the figure gave a brief hand signal to continue as the rope became taught once more.

The figure gulped again, feeling ever so much nervous, in fear that the fearsome leopards standing at the base of the statue might look up and spot him. For beside the figure rose an enormous statue that towered almost fifty metres into the air. It stood within an even more enormous sandstone and granite rotunda, with an enormous domed shape and another, yet smaller, domed roof. The figure was descending through a hole made by removing one of the hundreds of tiles that completed the intricate structure. The construction which rose at the centre of the awesome chamber was a gigantic life depiction of the jackal god Anubis. The statue itself composed the very centre of a truly gigantic palace. The inner sides of the grand dome were lined and carved with magnificent hieroglyphic patterns and symbols, forming an intricate language that told of hundreds of years. Many statutes, though far smaller, also adorned the great palace, which in turn capped monumental limestone pillars. Each edifice and pillar in turn was painstakingly painted with many lustrous colours. But it was not for these treasures that the figure had come.

Getting quiet close now, but a few feet away, the figure could now allow its torch to fully illuminate the awesome prize: embedded into the ivory and gold edifice of the face of Anubis lay two great emeralds. Each gem was as large as a chicken's egg. They were said to be the greatest treasures ever found in Egypt. Now they lay here in the very heart of the kingdom, since being rested from the depths of an ancient tomb long buried in the Valley of the Kings. Virtually none of the symbols depicted in the ancient temple had been legible; all that was but a single pictorial passage. The passage told of an ancient race of wise, clever, honest and true families, who had over the centuries gathered their knowledge to be accumulated into a legacy passed on through a single blood line. Over the millennia they had succeeded in strengthening their reputations as the world's greatest line of thieves. This was just about all that the passage could reveal bar one line. This line also stated that even as thieves, they were not villains, but stole from the tyrannous and evil, never tormented the misfortunate and poor and always had a strict code of honour adhering to this rule. This had never been broken. An interesting image the passage had consistently produced was that of several, in fact many, raccoon like figures; as if it were apparent that this was the constant image of the family. Finally, a single name, somewhat rubbed out by sand and grit, had been inscribed in the stone that sealed the temple. This one name was Cooper.

The figure had known all this, in fact studied that passage personally for many days on end until it had memorised the entire contents of it. The figure had known all about this even before now, had already begun to understand the true legend it was part of. But until now it had not really understand the significance that which it personally carried. This seemingly forgotten passage had reignited a long lost link, a lost grip on a story told but past. Now that story was to be reignited and continued. The figure knew that to be true. The very vehicle through which it would prove itself and finally reignite its place in the family lay but a few feet from its grasp. These very objects were the emeralds that lay before the figure embedded in the face of the statue. Wrongfully stolen by a tyrannous leader and used for selfish purposes, the figure now intended to retrieve the objects which had wrongfully been taken from its own family. They would be restored to their rightful place, where they belonged. Not at the heart and mind of a true nemeses, an enemy to his kin. For this was not but an ordinary sneak thief born and bred on the streets of Egypt, but a master thief of absolute cunning and skill. The light from the flickering torch it held revealed it to be a raccoon, adorned in robes and headwear like that of the hieroglyphs in the tomb. A pair of miniature, hooked canes hung at the belt of the raccoon, as also depicted in many of the temple images. This was no ordinary person at all, but a revived member of the Cooper family of legend, finally to begin the legend of the Thievious Raccoonus, the ancient legacy of thieving raccoons. His name was Slytunkhamen.

Slytunkhamen gave a low whistle, so low pitched that it was inaudible to the silently growling leopard guards standing metres below at the statue's gold adorned base. The darkened shadow of his companion on the roof gave a second set of whistles; this time high pitched in reply and slowed the descent of the rope, until it all but stopped. With a brief wave of the hand to give the okay signal, Slytunkhamen turned his body about in mid air to examine the glaring eye of the statue, whose head now rose right beside him. Gingerly he reached out and grasped the edge of the sculpture, pulling himself closer towards it. Groping slightly to remain firmly planted next to it, he watched with butterflies in his stomach as another fine trail of particles rained down to the floor of the palace. In the half-light of the flaming torches held in brackets about the chamber walls, a single leopard who chanced to look up failed to notice the slight and shadowy figure hovering by the statue. He turned back to his vigil of the rotunda floor and Slytunkhamen gave a sigh of relief and gulped slightly as he returned his attention to the gorgeous gem before his eyes. The moon now slid directly over the opening in the dome and lit up its many facets, giving it a radiant green glow. He saw his own face within it for the first time and he felt his heart swell with pride at his family's legend. Hundreds of years from now, he hoped his direct descendent could feel just such a way as he did. A feeling as though they were looking directly into the eye of Anubis, the eye of destiny.

Below him, none of the guards had noticed a single thing. They were all to transfixed at keeping their eyes glued to their immediate surrounds, in knowing fear of the punishment that should await them if the emeralds were to be found missing. Unfortunately, such consequences could not be helped. In any case, Slytunkhamen intended to bring down the ruthless ruler and all that he stood for - as a Cooper he was compassionate above saving lives, sometimes no matter how insignificant or blighted. For now, however, his single goal was to rest the emeralds from Anubis. Reaching out and giving the rope that held him an affirming tug, he begun to rock back and forth, using his feet as leverage to bounce his feet off the surface of the statue. Gradually he felt himself build momentum that continued to build slightly until he had achieved a gently swinging arc. As he rocked back and forth, the emeralds glimmered and blinked at him, tantalising him as he came closer and further from them. At last the swing of the rope bought him in a clean sweep to the face of the statue and he managed to seize the complicated edifice adorning the eye. With his nimble fingers firmly grasping the polished ivory vignette, Slytunkhamen slid one of the miniature canes from his leather belt and jammed it into the narrow grove beside the first emerald. Gritting his teeth, he jerked the handle sharply to the left and the gem popped from the groove like a cork, leaving a polished patch of gold behind it. As it slid from the groove, it slipped between his fingers and he just managed to seize the gem with his sweaty palms, shoving it into a camel skin shoulder pouch, before it dropped to the floor.

With one gem in his possession now, the wily raccoon gave yet another low pitched whistle and his companion on the roof began to tug at the rope. He felt himself swaying gently to the left, rotating around the head of Anubis as his companion revolved the position of the rope. He found himself being treated to a three-sixty degree vista of the awe inspiring construction, in all its majesty. First from the front-on view, then from the side of the head, then at the backside of the elaborate head adornment and finally he arrived at the reverse side of the face, this time with the nose pointing right. He could see the second emerald, seemingly even more admirable than the first, imbedded in the face. He now also saw the majestic inner-reverse-side of the tremendous dome. Many hundreds more hieroglyphs and symbols adorned the textured surface. Flexing his fingers in eager anticipation, Slytunkhamen raised his miniature cane, still clasped in his left hand, and bought it swinging up to face the eye. The sudden movement caused the already frayed rope to groan a little as it strained in earnest to accommodate for a second swinging arc. Again he managed to firmly clasp the vignette about the eye. He plunged the cane into the gap in the groove and gave it a good tug. To his horror he saw the beautiful gem fly right out of its place, float in mid air for a split second, and then drop like a boulder towards the sandstone floor.

With a silent cry of desperation lingering in his throat, Sly-Tutankhamen gave the rope a violently despairing yank and it suddenly came loose. With another jolt of horror he realised that the violent tug had caused his companion to forcefully relinquish the rope. As the emerald fell, so did the master thief after it. Raccoon and gem plunged for a few split seconds before he reached out and managed to scoop the precious relic to his breast. Flinging out a desperate hand to find a hand-hold, he found his grasp closing on the textured edge of Anubis's gown. His body gave a sickening lurch as it came to a sudden halt in mid-air, but ten metres from the ground. He still had managed to save the emerald, having it clasped tightly in the sweating palm of his left hand.

Quickly he shoved it into the camel skin pouch with the first relic and secured the latch. Giving an assuring whistle to his companion up above, who returned it with a second whistle, Slytunkhamen managed to clamber laboriously back up the surface of Anubis until he reached the head, where he could retrieve the rope and toss it back through the roof. Unfortunately, as he returned the end of the rope to the safe hands of his companion, his foot caught a loose chunk of sandstone fallen from the domed ceiling and it toppled off and fell for a few seconds before landing with a muffled thud on a guard's head. Snapping his gaze upwards, the guard was just in time to give a panicked yell as he saw the raccoon disappear through the hole in the roof, both of the emeralds now gone.

The dark, star spangled sky stretched like a deep black blanket over Slytunkhamen as he emerged from the depths of Anubis's chamber and clambered atop the domed roof of the palace. Scurrying quickly away from the hole, pulling the rope with him, he pricked his ears up as he heard several yells emanating from within the palace walls and buildings. He could also hear some angry and hoarse voices, the clacking sound of sandaled feet running over tiled floors and the sounds of doors slamming. He had but a few precious minutes before the guards surged onto the roof and had him cornered-but he planned to be long gone by then. Securing the camel skin pouch about his shoulder, he shoved both of his canes firmly into his leather belt and finally turned to his mysterious accomplice. He looked not upon an adult companion, but a small and tanned looking meerkat. He had found the boy living as a street urchin on the avenues of the bazaar, managing to save an apple or two from the stalls to feed his starved body.

He had pitied the poor boy, taken him in and made him one of his own. The boy had been excellent with agile tricks and other handy skills in a thief's capers. With a thankful grin to the boy, he plucked a single golden coin from his pouch and flicked it to him. The boy leapt up and caught the coin in his furry palms. Admiring the sheen of it, he gave a return glance towards his friend and smiled. Then with a wave, he was off, hopping and scampering over the scattered rooftops. Slytunkhamen watched him disappear into the night air, hoping he would be safe, before turning away to face the twisting paths of the palace buildings and rooftops beyond him. He stuffed the rope into his belt beside the canes and leapt from the glazed dome, soaring like a bat through the night.

Landing atop a second stone rooftop, Slytunkhamen galloped away at a nimble pace as he listened to the roars of the guards below getting closer and closer to the roof. His heart pounded against his ribs as he ran, his eyes focused on the roofs about him. At the edge of the next building he didn't stop to rest, but leapt with a superb arc across the street below and landed cat-like on the next perch. Again he picked himself up silently and continued to run towards the boundaries of the palace, the emeralds jangling in his pouch. He was so concentrated on his immediate flight from danger that he failed to notice a ragged, dark shadow swooping along in the sky immediately behind him. It moved with the silence of a predator ready to strike and only wing-like shapes could be made out upon it. It was the sudden flash of blue light that finally alerted him to his peril.

There was a tremendous crackling sound that bounced off the palace walls and slammed into the raccoon, blowing him off his feet and sending him sprawling to the stone floor. This was followed by a sudden buzzing humming noise that grew louder and louder, to an ever higher pitch before an almost invisible wave of hot air snapped through the sky and again knocked him flat. Finally, a brilliant ball of crackling blue lightening materialized in the sky just above a building beyond him and expanded into a massive wall of energy, a dark vortex opening in its midst. Through the vortex burst a bizarre looking device, an enormous blimp like construction with a large glass canopy stretching around a cabin at the base and several fins and propellers extending from the bloated body of the balloon. Beams of blue light burst from the rear of the strange apparition, propelling from the midst of the vortex, which shrunk and disappeared as the blimp hovered up into the sky. Squinting with his eyes, Slytunkhamen could just make out a figure standing in the cabin, black and white somewhat with a tremendous bushy tail and a mane of curling white hair. But he was too late to realise that the shadow had now taken the chance to surprise him, hovering directly above him. He felt the wind knocked from his chest and saw the pouch containing the emeralds fly from his shoulder and, clunking against the stone edge of the roof, disappear as it dropped off the rooftop and disappeared to the pavement below. He cried out in anguish as they vanished.

Feeling himself tossed over onto his back by a cold grip, Slytunkhamen hit the stone with a sickening crunch as he was lurched about momentarily before being raised in a talon like grasp. He felt a large bruise above his left eye swell as he looked into a pair of blaring red eyes, without pupils and utterly unmerciful. He could only see a dark shadow beyond the floating pair of eyes: the unseen enemy apparently had no body to reveal. He felt chilling hate spread through his body, squeezed into him by the steely talons that clasped him and squeezed him in a merciless grip. His canes clattered to the roof as the shadows' claws raised him higher and held him suspended above the streets several metres beneath. He felt the soulless intention course through him, all pouring from those intense eyes. So much hate, so much pain and so much suffering seemed to pour from their depths. Writhing desperately he raised his face and stared directly into his enemy's gaze, refusing to quiver and cower like a frightened coward before this nemesis. The eyes seemed to flicker briefly at his determination before hardening with a steely look of ice and leering down upon the raccoon. Then Slytunkhamen felt an awful pain sear through his chest as a flash of steel sliced across his vision. He looked down to see a red rose of brilliantly red blood blossoming from his chest, where the claw had impaled him. He gave a last rasping gasp of painful anguish as he felt himself being dropped and falling: the shadow vanished.

The night closed in around him.

**It is Your Destiny...  
**

This destiny was foisted upon you, but only because you are meant to be great. You are unique but only as strong as your own heart. Ultimately this responsibility falls to you, and the decisions you make, but I know that you will have the strength. You were meant to be here. It is all up to you now. But never forget the value of compassion – for that is what makes you different. Never give in to temptation and despair. It is not weakness but strength.

Never forgot who you are – do not compromise your true nature. That is how we survive and how we will survive. Only then are we true masters. Without that we are nothing, nothing. What would we be but like the fiends who plague this world? We live to fight against them, stand-out as a beacon of hope. There cannot be light without darkness or darkness without light. But goodness will always prevail, while there are those with conviction and belief to combat it. You are more than your enemies because you know what it is to hurt, to feel lose: making you more fortunate than they ever will be.

Yes, we are neither all good nor bad ourselves, but the world never truly is. But there are those who fight for a reason and those who just fight for gain. We fight for a reason, because we believe in more than material gain. Our skill gives us insight and power, power which could be abused. Never forget your responsibility. The legacy, and what you choose to do with it, will depend on the future – your future. When the time comes you may question your path. Then you will have the strength to go on. Just remember your identity.  
You might wonder why this responsibility has been put upon you: why we ever became the legend you were told of. This is because we believed in, from the beginning, that one can choose their path but remember what really matters. Never let your ambition cloud what is truly important. This dream has been passed on to you from generation to generation. What we do is what we believe in: we believe there is true potential that exists in what we do. Because we can accept that there will be goodness, but times where we must slip towards a darker side of ourselves, we know what it is to be strong.

Not of physical strength or of athletic prowess. These are tools of our trade but not what we centrally value. We value knowledge, without which you would not be. Without that this story would never have happened. It takes great people to make what we have – not what we possess. You and only you are what set you apart. In times of darkness, you will know when to make the right choices. You will know how you must draw on your strength. You were born, never intended to suffer this conflict. Heroes are not born but made.

Through our belief we have overcome what we despise: we never forgot that we fight for a reason. Never take a life. This is our foundation. If this is your destiny, what you have chosen, then you can be great. But only you will know when the time is right. You shall make those chooses and I know you will make them well. You must trust yourself to interoperate what is right. There is good in what we do, while the wonderful wealth of potential can be explored. But you must have faith, for it only has potential while you believe.  
Protect this – protect my family and pass this on to my son: love will be your guide. You will take over from me now; become the true master you were always destined to be. Fill my place and protect my son, my wife. They must live or there will be unimaginable consequences. When the time is right, pass the book to my son. Pass the legend onto him when he is ready. Then will my destiny be complete. Go, for it is your path. You have the potential – the spirit – to be unique.

You deserve this, for you are the true master of thieves.

**Son of a Thief...**

It is time that I told you who you are: who you can be if you make that choice – why you were born into this family. You are my son, destined for great things. It is now in your hands to carry on the work I have done: I now hand this on to you. Remember that I may not always be there for you. There will come a time when you must act by your own heart. Never ignore your instincts, for that is where you're heart lies and your true self also. When I am gone, that will tell you what you must do. Only you can decide on your path.

When you face adversity you will know how to tackle it. I cannot deny that there will be times when you will struggle, when you may suffer pain and regret. But never give in to despair. Goodness will always prevail if belief is there to find it. Remember that I have always believed in you. Tonight will be the time when I intend to pass my work onto you; the very treasure of our family. What you do with this knowledge is up to you, but never forget that it can be abused. Only if you give in to temptation - only once you cannot tell ambition from what really matters. Do not hunger for power, but appreciate it for the wealth it can give you. We have the power of knowledge, which is far greater than any strength. We have the ability to feel compassion: which gives anyone strength over the darkest foe.

While I may be gone in body, I remain in spirit as long as you remember me. Remember me for who I was and what I did for you, my son. But I can only stay with you while you believe in me. If you don't remember me as the loving father I tried to be, then I am only as good as the faith you placed. I hope for your sake that I could give you love – that which you needed and will need. Remember that knowing your weakness is strength, not a failure. You are more precious to me than any gold or wealth. That which is most precious and desirable of all, more so than any treasure: the ability to love, one who loves you.

For if you chose to follow this path – the path laid out for you by your ancestors – then compassion will become your strongest weapon. You will need conviction to believe in what we do: good exists in it. Believe there is a reason for what you are doing. Believe that there is something you fight for; not just because you can. I hope you feel this, but the ultimate chose rests with you. You will do as you see fit in times to come, and I know that you will do what is most true to your heart. A son I will always be proud of. Your mother would be proud of.

I say this now because I know that soon I may be gone. Soon there may be those who seek to destroy us, strip us of our legacy. Only through jealously and hatred would one go this far. I beg you, when you are older and I am gone, that you do not give in to this. For then we would be gone: the code we have kept would be shattered. But you have proved that you are above this. You know what it is to laugh, to cry and to feel despair followed by remorse. But you also know what it is to feel hope. These people have no hope: to feel hope is to believe in the future and believe in your path. You believe that you can overcome your darkest fears, and emerge triumphant. Do not cast aside one you love, who loves you also. No matter how hard it seems or conflicted. In the hardest times, they will provide light – be there for you when you really need it. It may take time, but they will understand; one day.

Hold your friends close and hold your loved ones close. Value them and treasure them, for they are greater than any prize. When you take my place, remember that we seek fulfilment in skill, but never at the price of a life lost; never by hurting an innocent. This nature is our true legacy.

**So that begins the story, but only hints at the greater plot. The actual narrative will be largely added to with a greater amount of original content and characters. It will thus not be an exact account of the game and thus hopefully enjoyable. I hope you enjoy reading it - Creative Raccoon!**


	2. Chapter 1 - In the Moonlight

**Part 1: The Last of the Cooper Clan.**

**Author's Note: There are just some slight grammatical corrections to this 3rd edition of Chapter 1. I have also added two new portions at the bottom, besides correcting some clunky sentences and altering the chapter title.  
Just a quick note that I have also taken inspiration from the author Matthew Reilly for the weapons in this chapter and the extended portions are included to facilitate plot points and story arcs I have created in later chapters - h**opefully it is improved - I will correct and update more regularly now.****

**Chapter One: In the Moonlight.**

**Paris, France: 4:21 AM.**

The night was cool and crisp. A crescent moon hung low, surrounded by stars. The moonlight bathed the landscape below it in a ghostly radiance. This gave some guiding light to the haphazard assortment of Parisian rooftops. Like an urban jungle, television aerials, skylights and water tanks were variously perched atop the buildings. Further away, neon lights and a large neon sign glowed in the darkness. The sign proclaimed _Le Police_ in green neon letters.

Then, like a stab of lightning, a swift, grey shadow leapt from a dark patch on the rooftops. It soared across the sky and landed, feet pointed, on a television aerial. Like a silent bat it leapt forth again and raced silently across the rooftop. It dodged around and over air vents and cooling stacks. In front of the shadow a large, stone chimney loomed. The figure splayed out an arm. In its hand it clasped a wooden cane, about a metre long and with a golden, sharp edged hook on its tip.

The blue gloved hand sprung out and the cane came into contact with the chimney bricks. The stack shattered and pieces of mortar sprayed and flew through the sky, toppling to the street below. The figure dived through the haze of smoke left behind by the broken stack and with a flash of blue, landed neatly on a third story window sill. Concealed by the light of the window, the figure inched along the sill and into the shining patch. Against the glowing window, the silent figure was revealed.

It was a young raccoon, about twenty-one years with glossy grey fur and a large bushy tail. He sported a tight, blue tunic over his torso and a yellow belt emblazoned with a symbol like a raccoon's head. He also wore a blue cap over his long, pointed ears and a billowing black bandana that covered his eyes and curled around the back of his head. Behind the blindfold a pair of cunning, brown eyes was flashing. Also, at his left knee was slung a red satchel and on his back, a larger red pack. To top it off, he also sported knee high, blue boots and blue gloves trimmed with yellow collars. Despite all this, he was as silent as a gust of wind. He made almost no sound at all.

With a goal seemingly in mind, the raccoon sniffed briefly at the air and then, with sharp reflexes he was familiar in using, shot across the expanse of the sill and again flew through the air. He sliced through the sky and allowed his streamlined body to guide him towards the next rooftop: a French flag fluttered in the breeze as he sailed by it.  
With another light flump he pounced onto the neon sign. Amidst a small shower of electrical sparks from the lights beneath his feet he gave another brief gaze to his surrounds and then sailed down to the rooftop. The raccoon pounced onto another large aerial atop the building and scanned his surrounds, keeping his balance on the tips of his toes. His gaze met a plastered wall on the opposite end of the roof. It read _Interpol Headquarters_ in red, white and blue lettering. The raccoon grinned, his goal finally found.

His observation was suddenly broken however by a loud and abrupt buzzing ring from the knee satchel at his leg. Moving his eyes from the chipped and weathered lettering, he reached into his satchel and removed a device that looked something like a pair of binoculars. Only this pair had a stack of computer chips affixed above the lenses and a large focusing device with multiple dials attached to the grip and tubes emblazoned with the word 'Bionic-u-com'. Lifting the device to his eyes, the raccoon twiddled the focusing device and a miniature set of virtual screens appeared. On one screen was his own face and on the other was a turtle sporting glasses and a large red bowtie. At the same time he monitored the area through the lenses. The turtle on the left hand screen coughed, clearing his throat and spoke.

"Sly, Sly, do you read me?" The turtle yelled, apparently in some distress.

"Yeah, yeah, I read you loud and ah, very loud," said Sly in a slightly annoyed tone.

"Yeah, well good," said the turtle, "I just wasn't sure about this job."

"Keep it in Bentley," said Sly, "You're safe in the van. I'm the one at risk."

"Okay, okay," said the turtle called Bentley, "I was just concerned, what with having to break into Interpol headquarters and all."

"Relax Bentley," Sly said again, "All I need to do is steal that police file from Inspector Carmelita Montoya Fox. You know best that it has important information about me."

"Yeah, I know," said Bentley in a conciliatory manner, "I just thought that I should go over that plan of ours again." Sly sighed slightly at this and sat back on his heels, ready for one of Bentley's speeches.

"Well," coughed Bentley, again clearing his throat, "You know the drill. I've already charted a route for you, down into the third floor of the building." Sly nodded and Bentley continued.

"Do you see that air vent over to your left," he said as Sly turned his Binoc-u-com in the direction, "If you break through the casing there and crawl through the shaft you can access the offices through an elevator tunnel." Sly nodded again and Bentley resumed his speech.

"Then from there I guess all you have to do is find inspector Carmelita Montoya Fox's office. I suppose that's where she will keep the file." Sly also nodded his agreement at this pronouncement and stretched, wanting to speak himself.

"That's all very well Bentley, but what about those thieving skills you were telling me about eh?" Sly had a curious tone to his voice this time as he said it.

"Ah, yes, well," Bentley mumbled in a low voice, "I guess that was another point to cover." He mumbled again and continued speaking.

"Point the Binoc-u-com towards the water tank to your right," he said in a rather instructing way, "Now, can you see any twinkling blue auras appearing on the narrow platform around it?"

As Sly adjusted to face the tank he saw what he meant. As he focused towards the rim of the tank he could see, just glimmering in the corner of his vision, a trail of blue sparks ringing the tank. He blinked in surprise.

"Yeah, I see them," he said in reply, "The twinkling auras you were mentioning."

"Great, down to business," said Bentley, "According to my research those blue sparks are a trait following only in the Cooper line, your family. It appears that when you are able to envision those lines you are actually sensing a thieving opportunity. It means you can perform some sort of thieving stunt that allows you to pull off any heist with ease. Almost like a form of ESP I suppose."

A grin formed itself on Sly's face as he listened. He liked the sound of this stunt. Shaking himself out of the reverie, he spoke again to Bentley.  
"That's actually quite cool pal," he said encouragingly, "I can definitely see how my family would have thought it useful. I'll be sure to try it!"

"Great," said Bentley, "I guess that's it really. Hope it all goes well. Look after yourself and ah, remember we'll be waiting for you down in the parking lot. After you've got the papers, just come straight there if no incident occurs, we'll be waiting." Bentley gulped slightly and swallowed.

"Thanks for watching my back buddy," Sly said gratefully, "Don't worry about it; I'll be down with the file in no time." Sly felt quite prideful as he said it.

"Ah, that's all right," Bentley gulped finally, "I'm just trying to keep you alive." Then seemingly as an afterthought he added, "Partner."

Sly grinned at this last addition and smiled gratefully once more. Then he took the Binoc-u-com from his eyes and replaced it in his satchel. Bentley's last words lingering in his head, he turned to the job at hand. He faced the water tank and the air vent beyond it. Then he gathered himself up and leapt from the aerial towards the ledge. He landed neatly on the ledge and pointed his toes, scuttling neatly across the blue auras. Amazed at the finesse he seemed able to show, he glowed with an inner pride at the cunning of his family legacy. Then, keeping his mind fixed on the job he inched around the remainder of the tank and sailed towards the vent.

Sly pounced, perching himself on the metal lip just beyond the air vent and took a breather as he scuttled into the safety of the vent's shadow. Then he raised the cane and with a good whack, smashed the vent from its bolted holdings. As the grate clattered to the rooftop, Sly had already ducked into the shaft beyond. Racing over the corrugated metal beneath his feet, Sly aimed for a speck of light at the end of the tunnel. He raced out of the shaft onto a narrow gantry and slid to a halt suddenly, not a moment too soon. Below him stretched the shaft Bentley had mentioned and there he could see the entrance to the building. But there was just one problem. A deadly series of orange security lasers bridged the gap between him and the floor. He could hear the electricity sizzling from them as they blazed through their circuits. Gulping, Sly backed away slightly. As he wondered what to do, another crackling sound echoed from his pocket. Bentley's voice issued from the satchel.

"Ah yes, I forgot one more thing," he said, "You'll probably encounter some security lasers. If so just try and dodge them best you can and don't touch them, they are high intensity. But one other thing; if you smash the alarm linked to their circuit you'll also disable them, handy isn't it?"

"Yeah, thanks again Bentley," said Sly, "I guess I owe you one." Hitching a grin upon his face again, Sly walked once more towards the laser pit. Examining his situation he noticed several metal platforms that formed another gantry, descending towards the floor. Those would be his way down.

Sly lunged forth and cutting his way through the lasers, bounced onto the first platform. Feeling bolder he leapt again and successfully landed on the second platform. In this manner he managed to navigate past the lasers until he found himself perched next to the system alarm, which sat before a metal grate which blocked the entrance into the building. Sly swung his cane again and the alarm sparked before shorting out and crumpling into a pile of twisted metal. Surprisingly the gate also clanked open, swinging in a wide arc as the alarm crumpled. Taking it as a sign of good luck, Sly ventured through with caution and into the wooden boarded corridor of Interpol headquarters.

It was time to find the file.

A long corridor stretched before him. Sly gazed down its length, peering at the doors that lined it on one side and the series of large glass windows stretching along the other. None of them however were emblazoned with the inspector's name. Sly then proceeded down the corridor, passing a row of large potted plants and mahogany wooden desks. Keeping his eyes peeled he looked for any glint of gold or a plaque that might indicate a high ranking official. Still seeing no sign of the office, Sly stopped at a second corridor that turned from the first one and then turned down it. More desks and pot plants lined the milky brown walls and a bulletin board was pinned up at the far end, tacked with many notices and documents. Ahead he could see more glass windows lining the far end of the building. With a tip-toe in his step, he made his way towards them.

As he reached the mouth of the corridor, the Binoc-u-com crackled to life again. He stopped to listen.

"Sorry about the interruption Sly," Bentley said apologetically, "But I have one more piece of information for you. Inspector Fox's office is actually behind a red door. It should be at the end of the west corridor. And remember it is probably reinforced, so you will need an alternate way to consider. Unfortunately I don't think your cane will break it."

Sly sighed in a slightly exasperated way, but was grateful all the same. "Thanks again Bentley," he said, "Just try and remember to speak up next time."

"Yeah, sure," said Bentley apologetically, "I'll remember that."

Hopeful as he finished speaking, Sly turned the corner around the corridor and peaked down the left hand side. And there it was. A red painted, wooden door gleamed right at the end of the corridor. Sly ran closer and he could just read the words "Inspector Carmelita Montoya Fox-Head Inspector" cut into a golden plaque. It was his goal at last. Even though Sly was trustful of Bentley's observations, he decided to give it a try. Raising his family's cane he swung it at the door and smacked the wood. He was slightly surprised to find therefore that it whacked the wood but bounced off of the polished surface, vibrating slightly. As he steadied himself he saw that not a mark had been made on its surface. Time to find that new way in, he thought.

Glancing around him, Sly saw a glass window that lay slightly open beside the door. That's the way he thought and he made his way towards the sill. With the help of another mahogany desk he clambered onto the window sill and pushed the glass shutter open. It swung out, hanging over the street three stories below and hung suspended in space. As he glanced over the edge, Sly could see the cobbled stone road below that line the Parisian streets. No matter he thought, Cooper's have always been able to deal with heights. He glanced to his left and saw the window to Carmelita's office; about three metres away, it also hung open. That was the way in. The only problem was to bridge the gap.

Observing his predicament, Sly noted a narrow stone ledge jutting out of the side of the building. It was a set of cobblestone bricks, adorning the arches of the windows on the floor below. Conveniently it ran the distance between him and the office window. Edging himself towards the left side of the sill he edged one foot onto the ledge. As he did so he shook his head, thinking he was seeing things. But his eyes were not deceiving him. The blue sparks again lay sparkling across the ledge, running towards the window. Another thieving opportunity he thought? Regardless he edged both his feet onto the bricks and rested his weight on one of the cobblestones.

Instantly a fine trickle of dust ran from a crevice between the bricks and rained onto the street. Sly tested his footing again but it seemed secure. Reassured, he inched another few steps onto the ledge. As he reached halfway, a jarring sensation jolted his right foot and he glanced down to see a fair sized chunk of cobblestone plummet from under his right foot and smash on the streets below. His pulse rising slightly, Sly kept moving.

He was now but a few steps from a balcony that inched about three feet from the wall. Bolstering his efforts Sly speedily covered the last three feet of the ledge and hopped lightly onto the polished stone surface of the balcony. A burnished metal railing ran its circumference and a single electric lamp gave off a faint glow as it hung above the window. Feeling that he had quietly achieved something, Sly strode over to the glass window and seizing the latch, gently swung it back. With a silent squeak the window swung back towards the stone masonry of the wall and lay to rest on a large cobblestone. Smiling with more satisfaction at his apparently undetected entry, Sly bounded into the room beyond. And there he stood; at the edge of the inner office, next to the red-paneled door.

Well that was all fine and dandy thought Sly to himself, but he still had to search for the file. Thinking he may as well start looking, Sly swept his eyes around the room. It was relatively large; about ten by six metres and unlike the corridor beyond it, with a series of waist high wooden panels mounted on the wall with peeling blue wall paper above that. Behind the door to the office was suspended a dirty cream coloured blind that was half drawn and suspended from a golden rail above the door frame. Lifting the blind, Sly could see a fox head like symbol emblazoned on the smelted glass. The light from the corridor behind it illuminated the edges of the symbol, somehow making it feel more significant. This somehow made Sly feel slightly nervous and awed to be in the office of someone so apparently devoted to the law. But as the last of a line of master thieves he still respected the law.

Shaking his senses, thinking of Bentley waiting worriedly in the van, Sly decided to get back to the work at hand. Turning away from the door he returned his attention to the western most wall of the office. It too was lined with thigh-height glass windows and this effect meant the moonlight outside spilled over the threshold, causing a slightly ghostly aura. Being a thief who was familiar with guile and stealth however, this was more of a convenience than a bother to Sly. His eyes were well accustomed to searching in the dark. Having covered three sides of the room he now focused on the remaining wall; the one facing north and the one with the inspector's desk pressed up against it. Also like the desks in the hall, it was made of polished mahogany. Sly scurried over for a closer examination.

Leaning over the items presented by the desk's polished surface, Sly began to rifle silently through the top most layers of documents. He may be a thief, but he still liked to retain a relevant air of gentlemanliness; Bentley was always lecturing him on the importance to be polite. The top most layers of detritus now skewed away, Sly began rifling through the filing cabinets beneath the desk. But still no documents with contents reading 'Cooper' did he find. With a small sigh of exasperation he straightened up and his eye was instantly caught by a series of plastic dividers resting on a corner of the desk, which also held a handful of papers and documents. Thinking he might as well do a thorough job of it, Sly reached for them and scanned the contents. But still no documents appeared and when he felt like giving up another two things caught his eye.

A velvet red couch that lay against one wall and a thin, wooden noticeboard that was suspended above the desk was what took his interest. Even better, next to the couch lay a three stacks high set of filing cabinets, encased in a dark green metallic box. A broad grin appearing on his face, thinking of his ignorance in not noticing these factors, Sly decided to search the cabinets first. Wrenching open the first draw he flew through wave after wave of documents that presented themselves. The first cabinet sorted, he began the second and the result was the same. Even though it now seemed unlikely, he spun through the files of the last cabinets and was not disappointed. No matter, he thought, time to search the couch.

Although it didn't seem likely, he thought there might be a slim possibility that the inspector had succumbed to some guile herself and as so hidden important papers in the velvet lining. Though after upturning the two cushions and flipping the pillows over on the base of the couch, no articles appeared. Sly didn't stop there however and reached towards the notice board above the desk. He scanned the items tacked there and one document caught his eye. Although nothing was written upon it, a small photograph about ten by ten centimetres, tacked to the top right corner of the board, bared an image of his own face. A gold star was pinned to the corner of the picture though, which seemed to mean something. Not letting that bother him however, Sly prised it off the board and tucked it into his back-pack. No harm in cleaning up the evidence.

A bemused feeling came over Sly as he sat down on the inspector's desk chair to think. Despite searching every edifice of the office, he had not found the elusive file. He glanced around one more time; at the desk, file cabinet, couch, windows and a small mahogany coffee table. There were no details he had overlooked. He had even searched the bottles scattered over the surface of the table and the fittings of the ceiling lamp. But to no avail. He finished his observations and swung his head around. As he did so, he noticed a dark shadow, caused by the moonlit window that concealed the eastern most corner of the office. How could he have missed that? He inched towards the spot. Then, as if rising from the shadows to confirm his suspicions, a huge hunk of metal and corrugated steel appeared, held together by huge rivets.

It was a combination vault – a thief's best friend.

#

Outside, in the cool of the night, a lone figure stood atop a high roof. The figure was feminine in appearance with a long and bushy tail. A sizeable holster was slung at the figure's waist, which cradled a brilliant red pistol. A gold-embossed badge hung about the figure's throat, proclaiming the title of inspector and affiliation to Interpol.

The inspector had detected Sly Cooper shortly after his arrival. It was her job to intercept and contain the thief. But inside she felt some conflict of emotion. The figure felt that she was not entirely sure of the motives behind these intentions, or why she would feel this way to the raccoon. Could it be affection? She tried to tell herself she was being silly, tried to deny it; it was ridiculous, of course it was not. Or could it be?

No, she must not get caught up in her own feelings: she had a duty to uphold and that was to uphold the law. This was what she had to do. She lingered for a moment, fingers brushing the radio at her belt. She was quite sure the raccoon had feelings towards her too. Neither seemed to be openly admitting it; over their scattered interactions they both seemed almost flirtatious. No, she was not that kind of girl. She had her duty to do and she would do it – no delays. The figure scooped up the radio and switched it on. The speaker crackled.

"We have Sly Cooper" she said quietly, "Repeat, we have Sly Cooper."

"Reading you loud and clear," replied a thick French accent, "Action will be taken?"

"Affirmative," she replied, "Preparing to apprehend and detain now."

She replaced the radio at her belt and sighed. She removed the bright-red pistol from its holster, examined it, and then placed it back, satisfied. So she would meet Cooper again, for the next of a few unusual encounters since the night at the Paris Opera House. But she felt this time was different; something more would come of this. But that she would have to wait to discover – she felt her path was not yet so clear as to see that far ahead. The one thing that did seem apparent, however, was that Sly Cooper was in it.

The inspector thought briefly about how she had come here: the village, the well-organised coalition of criminals who had sacked it and the sight of it burning to the ground. The Precious metal that she had fleetingly found they were after, but had not known of its true value; the strangely eternal and shining metal that the local craftspeople had used to make jewellery and oddly durable tools; simple folk who had enjoyed life's pleasures and not deserved to die. She shed some tears and then wiped them away: there was that vague memory of herself - only five as Cooper had been – but losing her parents in that terrible autumn of 1983. Her elbow-length black hair tied up in pigtails, her simple blue dress and leather sandals - the simple life of a village in the Spanish countryside.

One other definitive memory was that of the criminal ringleader: a weasel, wearing a monocle and carrying a rapier. Then another memory, crawling out of the deepest parts of her mind, flashed before her eyes; the glint of silver and the slashing blade. The sting of intense pain as the impact sliced down the left side of her back. The knife that had done it was still secured in some Interpol evidence locker somewhere in Paris, though it was now cleansed of her own dried blood. She still felt the large scar it had left – though she did not regret her reasons for having sustained it. The dark-red twenty-centimetre mark reminded her of what she had fought for in that winter of 1999: only months after meeting Sly Cooper and coming to her fresh and new position of inspector. _When she had first met Sly Cooper_.|

Her face stiffened and she clutched the shock pistol again, bringing it out and then firing a brilliant blue bolt into the sky that scared a flock of pigeons into flight. She replaced it again and breathed in deeply. Now she had taken care of that moment of tender feeling, she had her job to do.

Justice was worth fighting for; she just had to believe she could do it.

#

In a five storey building across the way from Interpol Intelligence, another figure stood on a balcony, with French windows open to the cool night breeze. She held a pair of binoculars to her eyes and scanned the building. She had lost sight of Cooper a few minutes ago, but she knew he was there; _he really was very skilled_, she couldn't deny that. The inspector had also arrived shortly after. The red Peugeot sports car was parked in the alley beyond the Interpol building. A Barrett sniper rifle – assembled and loaded – lay on the coach in the living room of the apartment behind her. She had considered it, but now was not the time: the inspector had many uses to her yet.

The figure glanced at her watch; it read 4:43 AM. Her plane leaving for Pretoria first via Naples and then Cairo was due to leave in another two hours from Charles de Gaulle International. Sly Cooper was most important to her plans now, beyond what he could know. She walked back into the room, placing the binoculars in a metallic titanium case on a coffee table. The case also contained Glock-17 and nickel-plated Berretta pistols. Tucked into another part of the case was a standard US marine issue Armalite MH-12 Maghook. She came well prepared. Shutting the case and securing its locks, the figure picked up the suitcase and placed it with the other baggage at the door. A metal tag on the case bore the letters NICE embossed in silver.

She headed for the bathroom, intending on a shower before departing. As she entered the bathroom and snubbed the door, someone entering from the hall might have just seen that she looked like a lioness. The shower came on with a shudder – the pipes rattling at first – and hot water issued out. When it was cool, she removed her clothing, underwear and bra, and stepped into it. The whole time she kept a pistol resting on the soap rack.

After five minutes or so she turned off the water and got out. She stood there for a moment – staring at her naked self in the mirror – then wrapped her body in a towel, dried, and got dressed in fresh clothes. She left the bathroom, picked up her belongings and closed the apartment door behind her. The door was locked with a key and then she summoned the elevator and traveled down to the ground floor and got out in the lobby. There a bell boy stopped briefly, handed her an envelope, and then excused himself.

She opened the envelope and examined the three photographs inside. One was of a fifty-something turtle with glasses; the next of a weasel wearing a monocle; and finally there was an owl who she knew was seventy-three, bearing glasses and the rank of ex-Soviet scientist in the Cold War. These were her targets, and would be most important from now on. She already had photographs of the Cooper Gang in her case.

Then she exited the lobby and got into the Rolls-Royce waiting for her outside the hotel. The time was exactly 5:00 AM.

#

A lone man was also out that night, observing the Cooper Gang. He was shrouded in a dark cloak; the only glimpse of what was concealed beneath was the strange metallic glint of his hands. They appeared to be made entirely of steel. He was mysterious in every way, a ghost to Interpol and every over police force. No one knew who he was, his identity being a well-kept secret. Everyone under him only knew him by his title – The Master, the one and only true master. His plans were infinite, stretching beyond the imagination of Sly Cooper. Now it was all coming to tremendous fruition. He was the latest in a long line who had worked for this goal and it was so close now. _The guild was infinite_: a few years were nothing to him.

After a few more minutes of observation he grunted and turned, walking away from the branch of French Interpol Headquarters along the cobblestone street. He left without a sound and not a soul knew he had been there, or remembered anything about it.

But one thing he knew was certain:_when this was all ended, they would remember his name._

**Chapter 1 of 3 in Part 1 of 6.  
So the adventure begins: the Cooper legacy will face its greatest challenge yet.**  
**So, Sly Cooper, the last of his lineage, will set out to achieve the impossible and face the enemies even now plotting his downfall...**  
**Please review the updates if you enjoyed this chapter, Creative Raccoon!**


	3. Chapter 2 - The Lady and the Thief

**Chapter Two: The Lady and the Thief.**

It was exactly the object Sly had been looking for. He should have thought of it, it should have been obvious. He should have looked for it from the start. Where else would a law driven woman such as Carmelita Montoya Fox keep documents of such importance? He should have guessed it was in a safe. Resigned to the facts, Sly paused at the heavy steel door of the beast. He examined it closely. The huge vault was adorned at its face with a fair sized dial, indicating a combination lock and then a series of number wheels, three to be exact, ranging from the numerals one to nine. Simple, but effective Sly thought. He guessed that the wheels unlocked the heavy mechanism of the safe. Thinking on his feet, Sly quickly calculated it was definitely Bentley's department.  
**  
**Knowing he might not have too much time before the illusive inspector Fox showed up, Sly quickly reached for his satchel a second time and eased out the Binoc-u-com. He refocused the dial atop the lenses and pressed it to his eyes. Again the virtual screen popped up and Bentley's image crackled into life, appearing on the left hand side.  
**  
**"Sly, Sly," Bentley screeched in a worried tone. He seemed in much distress. "Are you all right?! Do we need to scrub the mission?"  
**  
**"Yeah, yeah, don't fret buddy, I'm fine" said Sly soothingly, "The mission hasn't been compromised – yet. I just need some help regarding a combination safe, I believe you are good at this technology stuff. The problem is that having searched the office I think Carmelita has stored the file within it. So as you see, without a combination, that is a bit of a problem."  
**  
**"Ah yes, I see the problem you have" said Bentley in sudden understanding, "I'll see what I can do. Just hang on a second or two. I think I can hack into the Interpol computer system from the van. Maybe I can get the dough on the combination to Carmelita's vault."  
**  
**Sly waited patiently on the opposite end of the line as he listened to the sound of an electric buzzing and then a series of beeps and blips. Then there was a brief moment of silence before a long bell like tone sounded and there was a sigh of relief from Bentley. Then he heard the sound of a mouse scrolling downwards and the click of several buttons.  
**  
**"Uh-huh, uh-huh" said Bentley through the line, "I think I have it. Let me see, ah yes, these are Inspector Fox's files. Just one more moment, I should have the combination for you in just a second. I reckon this is it."There were a few more scrabbling sounds over the line and then Bentley's face fizzled back into being onto the Binoc-u-com lenses.  
**  
**"Yes, this is it Sly" said Bentley rather more energetically, "I have the actual combination here on hand. Now listen closely and I can give it to you. Are you standing by the vault? Now listen in closely and we'll have that baby cracked in no time!"  
**  
**Sly knelt down in front of the steel door at Bentley's words and placed his hand on the first of the dials. At the same time he placed the Binoc-u-com on the floor beside his left knee so as he could listen to Bentley's words."Ok Bentley" said Sly, "Go ahead."  
**  
**"Here we go then" said Bentley, "This took a bit of algebra and mathematics to get, but here it is. Make sure you're listening. Scroll onto the first dial the number seven."  
**  
**Sly proceeded to do so as he listened to the words. Then placing his hand on the second dial he scrolled in the number three as Bentley read it out and then the final number, eight. The vault door gave a creaking groan and then it clunked and Sly heard a heavy mechanism fall into place. Then a final grinding noise sounded and the heavy slab of steel swung open and came to rest against the glass window of the eastern wall. Peering inside the cavernous interior of the vault Sly saw a lining of red leather nailed into the walls. And resting in the midst of the silky chest lay a fine stand composed of finely coiled bronze wires and topped with a silver embossed plaque. There, resting on the silver plaque was what Sly had hoped for. The Cooper file was perched atop the bronze stand. The vault had delivered the goods.  
**  
**"Do we have a positive on the file Sly?" There was a questioning tone to Bentley's voice as he appealed to Sly's silence. "I didn't make a mistake with that combination did I? I'm sure I hacked into the correct network. But you never know; that Carmelita could be wilier than we think."  
**  
**"Don't fear, it's all good," Sly said in an effort to console his friend, "The combination was on the level. And as a bonus, the file was in it. It is as good as ours now. Maybe we can even get out of here before Carmelita gets here; though it wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing. It would be fun seeing her again. We had such fun back in Bogota – remember that tear gas? I haven't seen her either since our heist in Bombay."  
**  
**Here his voice trailed away and he sat back, lost in his thoughts of the inspector. Suddenly he was broken out of his reverie as Bentley coughed loudly over the Binoc-u-com line. Noticing Sly's blush Bentley felt a little suspicious of his friend's feelings.  
**  
**"Ah, yes, well I hate to interrupt you in your romantic thoughts, but I really think you should get that file and skedaddle. It would be easier than causing a fuss. You know how persistent inspector Fox is." Bentley ended his speech with a slight accusatory tone. For a while now he had expected that Sly had more than just simple feelings towards the inspector. This seemed to confer his suspicions. "And yes, I remember just how much I hate tear gas."  
**  
**"Oh yes, of course" said Sly apologetically, "I'll just grab that file. Then we can get back to the hideout."

Intending then to console Bentley further, Sly swung his arm forward and plucked the file from its podium. Then he lifted it from the interior of the vault and tucked it into his pack. As an added afterthought Sly then reached down into his leg satchel and removed a small, folded flap of cardboard and flipped it open. It was a small blue and white symbol, again shaped like a caricature of a raccoon's head as on his belt. Staring for a small moment at the symbol, the symbol that reminded him of the legacy of his family, Sly felt another surge of pride at the legendary exploits they had undertaken. Then he placed the cardboard placard in the centre of the silver plaque, as if to mark his work. It seemed fitting as a beginning to his personal tributes of the Cooper legacy. Carmelita would be quite surprised when she found the file no longer inside.  
**  
**"Okay Bentley," said Sly at last, "I've secured the file and we can get out of here. I'll be down as soon as I can."  
**  
**"Yeah, that's great pal, be still my beating heart." Bentley could be heard to heave a sigh of relief as he said the sentence. "I'll just hand you over to Murray now. He'll give you a few words on how we'll handle this getaway. We need to as explicit as possible."  
**  
**"Okay, put him on," said Sly, "It will be good speaking to Murray; he always brings life to the party – such a great guy."  
**  
**Sly listened to the crackling sounds that momentarily began to issue from the Binoc-u-com on the floor and then a few grunting and puffing sounds were heard. Finally a long sigh was let out and a heavy body could be heard flumping into place. Sly jammed the Binoc-u-com lenses over his eyes again as a porky and thick muscled face appeared on the screen where Bentley had been. It was a hippo. He had rich pink skin and a duo of thick white teeth that seemed overly large. He also had small fleshy flaps for ears that hung over the black mask he wore to cover his big, blue eyes. Just like Sly he had a rather roguish look, but a kind look as well to that thick face. Not so much like the thin and pinched face of Bentley with his wire framed glasses and neatly ironed bow-tie. He spoke in a low and tough voice that had a hint of dimness about it.  
**  
**"Hi Sly," he said breathlessly, "Great to be in action now isn't it?"  
**  
**"Sure is Murray," Sly said in a warm tone, "It's great to see you and Bentley assisting me on the field."  
**  
**"We do our best," said Murray happily, "We just try to be good mates and keep you safe. It's important we stick together."  
**  
**"Don't worry" Sly continued, "I do notice it and it is well appreciated. It's nice to know my pals are watching my back."  
**  
**"Thanks Sly" said Murray, blushing slightly as he spoke, "We should stick together as a team. All for one and one for all I say. Now let's get down to business with our current plan so we can continue to keep you out of harm's way."Sly sat back again, waiting patiently as Murray began to relate the scheme.  
**  
**"As you know" he said, pausing for breath, "I am the driver of the getaway van. It isn't any different this time. Bentley has instructed me to drive to the rear of the parking lot, just beyond the east wall of the building. I believe that is where Carmelita's office is anyway. I have parked the team van just beyond the gate and we're waiting for you there. It should then be relatively simple. All you have to do is make a speedy exit through one of the east facing windows and beyond should be a metal fire escape leading into the parking area. From there it should just be a simple matter of running across the parking lot and then hopping into the van. I'll leave the back doors open so as to get away quickly."  
**  
**"I got it pal" Sly said, "Could you just sum it up for me again?"  
**  
**"Sure" Murray said obligingly, "Just head down the fire escape and Bentley and I will be waiting in the getaway van. Keep safe Sly and we hope to see you in a few minutes."  
**  
**"Roger that, over and out" Sly said in official manner, "Will do Murray. See you in just a few minutes."  
**  
**"See you Sly" said Murray, an affectionate tone in his voice now, "Just remember, as Bentley would say, all for one and one for all; over and out."  
**  
**The small screen on the Binoc-u-com crackled and the image disappeared. Finished talking, Sly finally replaced the instrument back into his satchel and flicked the dial. The lenses de-focused as he did so and the computer chips stopped humming. The office fell silent again. Sly gave a final sweeping glance to the room, intending to leave no other traces other than the paper cutting that now rested in the vault and turned towards the glass windows. As with the previous window he silently flicked the latch and it twisted downwards, letting the glass pain swing out towards the night air beyond. His exit route now established, Sly stepped one blue booted foot over the threshold and then the other, and he stepped out into the night air of Paris.  
**  
**A chill wind blew through the streets. The cold breeze cut through the buildings and sent a slight shiver through Sly as he hopped over the threshold of the office window. Despite his tunic being slim lined and allowing him to move stealthily, it wasn't the warmest garment. Still he thought you had to give up some things in order to be a clever thief. That was a sentience Sly remembered his father repeating to him eighteen years before. Sly became slightly wistful again as he thought of his dead father. A tear rolled down his cheeks and plopped onto his boot. Quickly he shook himself and recovered his feelings. As Bentley and his father would've said; no point in crying over spilt milk. He sniffed again and walked out and stepped onto the metal gantry bolted to the eastern side of the building. He peered down and examined his exit.  
**  
**A burnished metallic stairway stretched beneath him and criss-crossed back and forth until it reached the concrete of the car park below. The stairs climbed three levels upwards until they met the very platform on which he now stood and behind him a final set of stairs led to the roof. Handrails ran down their expanse and the rungs were bolted into the wall. The fire escape hugged the side of the bricked building like a large, black snake. From his vantage point Sly could just glimpse the concrete arch at the far end of the lot that marked the exit.

Beneath it he could also see the team van parked; a large purple, flaming orange and blue truck that Murray had personally modified for the gang's use. A large Cooper emblem composed of steel was bolted to the bumper bar at the front and it trailed a racing flag at the back. Murray in his earlier days had loved turf racing in trucks and other haphazard assortments of custom vehicles. Bentley also had commissioned an assortment of gadgets to be added to the vehicle. A large radar dish sat atop the rear of the van and a radio antenna stuck out from the top of the drivers cab. The van had been many places. It was Murray's life and soul – he loved it like a child.**  
**As Sly shifted his gaze from the van he could just judge that it was about one-hundred metres from him. All that now lay between him and the gang was the expanse of the parking lot. He thought that being a fast sprinter he could just make it before anyone noticed him.

From past experience he knew that Carmelita Fox could appear quite quickly and was fast on her feet. Bentley was right; it was easier to make an unnoticed exit. He turned towards the first staircase descending down and idly trotted towards it. Beside it, a fluorescent red arrow, emblazoned on the cobblestones directed him downwards as well. Following the direction it pointed, he put his foot on the first step. Just as he started to descend, out of the corner of his vision, Sly glimpsed the gleaming steel structure of the Eiffel tower, rising above the Parisian skyline. A smile flickered on his face at the thoughts it brought to him and he turned to go.**  
**Then a sudden rustling sound to his right caught his attention and he pricked his ears up, listening intently. Turning his face towards a building that lay just over the concrete wall of the car lot he saw a flicker of brown pirouette from the cobbled roof of the building and gracefully glide onto a cafe sign that stuck out from the edifice. Focusing his gaze over the wall he made it out to be a figure of a vixen. Widening his eyes, Sly suddenly realised who the vixen was.  
**  
**"Stop right there," said the figure, "Criminal", it added with a crisp snap. The accent had a French tone to it and seemed to roll delicately off the tongue of the speaker. But there was definitely something else there as well, possibly the curl of a Spanish tongue. Sly grinned as he spoke in reply.  
**  
**"Ah, the ever lovely Inspector Carmelita Montoya Fox," said Sly, guile rising in his voice, "I haven't seen you since the job in Bombay."  
**  
**"Yes, that reminds me," Carmelita said with another brisk snap, "You still need to return the fire star of India to its rightful owners - I don't forget either Sly."

"Oh of course," Sly said, "But ah, I was thinking of giving it to you as a lovely present, much like yourself, to bad really."

"Thanks, but no thank you," said Carmelita with a tone of venom in her voice, "I think we can safely discuss this when you're where you belong; behind bars!"

"Nah, I don't think so," said Sly, "I hear the service is lousy. And it's not really my kind of accommodation." He had a humorous air to his voice now. Carmelita didn't seem to find it amusing. Her voice turned colder, but still with an undefinable feminine touch to it.

"Well I'm sorry Sly," she said, "But that's where you're going. It's been my mission to bring you to justice ever since we met." Even as she said those words, Sly could see a small up twitch in her lips and a small rise in her eye brows. Whatever she said, Sly also knew that Carmelita had more than simple feelings towards him to. He smiled as he looked at her; this game of toying with each other had gone on for quite a while.

Sly examined Carmelita as she spoke; she hadn't changed much since Bombay. Like him she still retained that glint to her that indicated a sort of agelessness. She had the same long, flowing, black curls of hair raining waist length down her back and ending in a tight pony tail tied with a golden band. She also wore a golden ring on her left ear which hadn't been there last time. But much else was the same. She wore a shortened officers jacket that had wrist length sleeves, hung down to her waist and pockets on either side. She also now adorned here hands with tight fitting yellow gloves.

Below the jacket a bare section of her stomach all around the waist lay exposed to the night as she wore a tight fitting jacket that rapped itself around her upper torso and looped over her shoulders. The leather of the garment pressed against her chest accented her muscled, but still feminine physic. Below her waist she wore a pair of smooth, black, tight fitting officer's pants that hugged her legs and ran down into knee high leather boots. The boots had long laces that ran up their face and ended in a knot at the knee. Around the rim of the pants she wore a belt that carried a holster, silver buckle and several small pouches.

Sly's gaze wandered upwards again and he examined her face. It still had the beauty of passing years and it entranced him slightly. A pair of thin, rosy red lips ran across the lower section and a small, pointed black nose accented the centre of the picture. A perfectly round and petite beauty mark labelled her left cheek. Above that a pair of dazzlingly large brown eyes gleamed and lustrous eye brows crowned them. She had small pinched cheeks that adorned her face and the whole image was set in a heart shaped visage.

Below her face the features were accentuated further by a black band around her neck that boosted a gold placard emblazoned with a star symbol; that of the Interpol police. Like her cheeks, the rest of her body sat very upright and proper. She held her back straight and a bushy tail extended from behind her. The leather jacket she wore pushed up her chest and tightly pinned her bosom upwards. Despite being beautiful, Sly could also see the speed and cunning in her. She was not to be underestimated.

Then a loud exhaling of speech from Carmelita bought Sly out of his reverie.

"Cooper," she said, clearly trying to indicate authority, "We have tarried long enough. It's time for you to surrender. Come with me willingly and I shall see to it that your sentence is shortened." Sly could hear an almost beseeching tone in her voice now. Still, he knew what he should do. As much as he liked Carmelita, he wasn't intent on spending time behind bars.

"Sorry Carmelita," said Sly almost genuinely, "But as much as I would like to spend time with you in a cell, I really must be going." He snapped off his sentence with a brisk nod and turned to leave. But he heard a cocking noise behind him and flinched again.

Carmelita had raised a brilliant red pistol in front of her now and was pointing it straight at Sly. It appeared to have been concealed in the holster until now. That's not good he thought. He could see her fingers poised on the trigger, raising it with both hands ready to strike. He noticed the concentration in her. She didn't flinch from her gaze. Sly was pretty sure she was also a dead eye shot; it was time to bail out.

"Hey, that bazooka really brings out the colour of your eyes," he said, trying to make a joke of the situation. As an afterthought he added, "Very fetching."  
"Yes," she replied, "This is my good friend, the shock pistol. It packs a paralysing punch that is sure to subdue anyone, even you Sly." Sly searched her eyes as it was said and he could see a hint of hesitation in her pupils. _What was she thinking?_

"Now you see that's the problem," Sly said consolingly, "A girl whose best friend is a firearm has got a problem. Maybe I could take you out for a little dinner, dancing perhaps - a romantic evening in other terms. It would help to relieve the tension." He punctuated the last two sentences with a hopeful tone. "I sense that you hesitate anyway."

"What – yes, I mean no, of course," Carmelita said, "And as tempting as that may be, I have a duty to do Sly: capturing you." She raised her pistol further and then added, "Make it easy Cooper."

"Sorry inspector" said Sly, suddenly shifting into a professional manner, "But that's not on my agenda. I really must be going. I'll see you around." As he finished that he decided to add, "Carmelita." He felt better saying her name. Then with a grin on his face he turned and ran for the staircase. He heard the cry of surprise issue from Carmelita as he ran and he also heard her voice echo behind saying:  
"Come back here ring-tail!"

Ring-tail Sly thought, that's a new one. But he didn't stop to ponder the matter; he just ran as fast as his feet would carry him.

Carmelita stood atop the roof and stared after Cooper as he barrelled down the stair way. She had had a small, hopeful feeling that she wouldn't have to resort to force. She felt deep down that she had feelings for the thief and she was sure he knew it. She couldn't explain it, but a part of her felt that she wanted him to escape. She looked at the pistol cradled in her grip. She had to shove down her personal feelings; she knew what she must do.

Sly ran at the fastest speed he could muster. He was barrelling down the stairs, the metal slats clanking and echoing beneath his feet. He knew he had temporarily stunned Carmelita at his swift exit, but he knew that wouldn't last long. She had sharp reflexes he had previously experienced and he knew that they were equally matched. But he didn't turn his gaze but just kept running. Then, as if to confirm his idea, as he reached the first gantry a loud bang sounded just inches above his head. He finally swivelled around to see that Carmelita had launched a ball of electric energy from her pistol and it had crashed headlong into the gantry above him. It spewed a wave of electric lightning over the metal and then the platform split and fell. A horrible whining and tearing noises rent the air as the structure contorted.  
The remains of the twisted metal rained down upon the place he now stood and he dived for cover as the rubble pounded the place he had been standing. Although he was sure that Carmelita had not meant to do so, he was sure that the collapsed gantry had been intended to block his escape. She wanted to capture him; she would never intentionally kill anyone.

Still he ran, desperately trying to outrun Carmelita's pistol as he heard another series of shots launched at the fire escape. Again an electric sphere of energy soared over his head and collided with a strut of the stairs. Another spasm of energy rocked the structure and the second floor splintered and crashed downwards; gouging marks into the cobblestone they gripped. Just narrowly beating the fall of rubble once again, Sly rolled onto the final balcony. About three metres below lay the concrete ground but it was still too far away to risk Carmelita's pistol. But he was rendered without a choice as another energy ball slammed into the frame of the final staircase and sent it crumbling and toppling towards the hard ground.

With a loud rumble, the rubble scattered over the parking lot and metal fragments and beams rolled confusedly. Sly skittered to a halt at the tip of the once intact staircase, his mind desperately calculating a plan. He glimpsed again that Carmelita was preparing to stun him with another electric bolt. Time had run out. He leapt from the metal platform and he flew through the air as Carmelita's projectile tore apart the remains of the gantry.

Carmelita lifted her pistol, glancing at the dust cloud that shrouded the wreckage of the stairs. Had Cooper fallen? She felt a brief moment of concern before she cried out again. She saw Sly dart out of the dust cloud and race across the expanse of the car park. She now saw what he aimed for; a large van lay at the arched exit to the parking lot. Its doors were flung wide as if waiting to greet him. Cooper sure had loyal friends; she admired that of him. Sly was cunning and planned his escapes well. He would make a speedy escape in the van. She knew to capture him it would have to be before that point. But she had another factor on her side; ahead the parking was littered with police vehicles and wooden barriers. Cooper would have trouble getting around that. She raised her pistol again: _sorry ring-tail_.

Sly's heart was beating hard in his chest as he ran towards the distant site of the van. Gradually the metres were closing but there was still a distance to cover. His slim body trickled with sweat as he ran. Ahead he saw a group of police cars scattering the area ahead of him. Time to use more fancy acrobatics he thought. He leapt towards the bonnet of a car and raced along its edge, the now familiar blue auras shining beneath his toes. He smiled in appreciation at his family's skills. But again there was a loud bang and a burst of electric energy soared over his head, colliding with the bonnet of a neighbouring car and sending an explosion of flame erupting from the engine. Knocked from his perch, Sly tumbled onto the concrete with a jarring thud. His head reeling, he quickly flipped up and resumed running.

His vision almost blurring, Sly kept his eyes fixed on the van in front of him. He was determined to reach it. He sprinted under wooden barriers and soared over more vehicles under a continual hail fire of energy. More flames leapt into the air and tearing sounds rent the night. Behind Sly, a misfired shot sent another car reeling into the air and crashing to earth again with a spurt of fire. He leapt again as more blue auras appeared over a wooden barrier and his toes flipped lightly and landed on them. He sped across it and rolled over the boot of another car as another shot smacked into the ground at his feet and a wave of electricity swept across it. Then he looked up again and finally the open doors of the van loomed over him and he dived for them.

As Sly leapt he saw Bentley reaching out his hand, ready to grab his and pull him into the van. Sly smiled appreciatively and grabbed it.  
"About time you got here," said Bentley, "Appears as if Carmelita finally showed up. Come on. Murray's got the engine warmed up and idling. Let's go!"  
"Yeah, I think that's a good idea pal," said Sly, "Let's get out of here. I hope Carmelita doesn't feel too badly. She's not really a bad person to have around."  
"Oh I'm sure we'll see Carmelita again Sly, don't worry about that," said Bentley, "I expect she'll never be far behind." With this sentence, Bentley heaved Sly into the van and the doors swung shut with a soft click.

"To the Korsakov - Krakow - Krakov Volcano and back," stuttered Bentley enthusiastically. His glasses slid down to lie lopsided on his nose.

"What volcano Bentley?" asked Sly. Bentley stared fleetingly and then came to again.

"Oh, it's just something important for our next mission," said Bentley. "I'll explain it back at the hideout Sly." Bentley pushed his glasses back onto his face.

"Alright Bentley," said Sly understandingly – but curiously. "Hit the gas Murray!"

Murray hit the accelerator and the van's engine roared to life. Smoke spluttered from the exhaust and the tires found traction on the road beneath them. The van roared again and pulled away from under the arch, finally taking off down the narrow cobbled street. It bounced slightly as it hit a lump in the cobblestones and more energy glanced off the flank from Carmelita's pistol. More fire bounced away from the rear doors. It barrelled into a newspaper stand, sending copies of the Evening Gazette flying everywhere.

Then the van was forced to mount the pavement, scaring several pigeons into flight. They skimmed by a dainty cafe, sending chairs and tables flying. Both Sly and Bentley hollered in shock, so that Murray grasped the wheel, attempting to steer back on course. Blue-clad officers burst out of an Italian restaurant across the street and the van made a full three-eighty spin to avoid hitting them. The team breathed a sigh of relief before the van shot through a display standing outside a fashion boutique. Activating the windscreen wipers, the latest haute couture was flung over them in a snow of multicoloured cloth. Sly briefly caught a glimpse of a noir evening gown that would have suited Carmelita, but it was gone in a moment. He made a mental note to ask to borrow some money from Bentley's savings.

"No, my donuts," bawled Murray, as a box of them hurled itself across the windscreen: Bentley was pelted with cinnamon and jam pastries - "Another trip to the patisserie then."

Suddenly three police cars shot out of an alleyway and slid into their path, tires screeching. Murray seized the wheel and swung the van back into a straight line and they turned a corner of the road, narrowly missing a lamp post. Again Murray swung the wheel in a wide arc and the van skidded along the uneven surface. Sparks flew as the van accelerated and disappeared down the narrow avenue. Sirens were beginning to sound off in the distance as they sped away. Sly turned his head just in time to see Interpol headquarters and the enraged Carmelita disappear into the night. He pricked his ears up as they disappeared and he thought he could hear Carmelita pierce the night with a final sentence:

"I'll find you again raccoon: you can't escape from me Cooper!"

**This is Chapter 2 of 3 in Part 1.**


	4. Chapter 3 - A Fractured Legacy

**Chapter Three: A Fractured Legacy.**

The van sped down the silent streets of Paris. Night was moving on and as Murray swung the steering wheel to the right again Sly could just see the first rays of dawn emerging on the horizon. The vague pinkish glow sent ripples of light streaming across the sky and it bathed the buildings in a veil of colour. The picture it made was quite blissful and as Sly looked, he felt relaxed after the intense happenings that had occurred in the last hour. Even though he had felt almost apologetic to leave Carmelita behind, seeming quite broken up about it to, he was appreciative of his narrow escape.

As he thought this he groaned and looked down at his shoulder. A small patch of the blue tunic had been scraped away by the collapsed fire escape and a slightly red-raw patch of skin had appeared. It stung slightly as he touched it. Still he thought; it could have been much worse. After all he had only been in the hands of Carmelita. As he groaned however, Bentley glanced back in concern at his friend's injury.  
**  
**"You all right Sly?" asked Bentley worriedly, "That welt looks quite nasty; perhaps I should attend to it." He made a hand gesture towards it as he spoke.  
**  
**"Nah, I'm alright Bentley," said Sly, "It is only a small scrape; it should heal quite quickly. Besides it is sort of like a souvenir of my outing with the inspector." He gave a devilish grin to his friend as he said it.  
**  
**"Ah yeah, right," Bentley said in a suspicious manner, "Well if you're sure it's all good that's all right with me. Just take care of yourself."  
**  
**"Simmer down Bentley," said Sly, "I got the file after all. We achieved our goal and barely came out scathed. A rather successful mission wouldn't you say?"  
**  
**"Okay you're right," said Bentley apologetically, "I guess I'm just over cautious. And you are right, we got the file." He too then returned Sly's earlier smile in tired appreciation.  
**  
**As they talked, Murray turned his head and twisted towards the back seat, resting his elbow on the tattered leather backing of the driver's seat. Sly and Bentley both turned to him as he seemed about to speak.  
**  
**"Don't worry Bentley, it pays to be cautious; it gets Sly safely through the missions remember?" He coughed slightly and quickly jerked the wheel before turning back again. "Besides as a team member I value both of you equally. Sly gives stealth and agility to the team while you, Bentley give us the brains and technology. We can take care of each other quite easily." He grinned good-naturedly at his friends as he finished speaking. They both stared back at Murray before they smiled too.  
**  
** "Thanks a lot Murray," they both said, "You're also always a great value to the team. We value you as much for your qualities of strength and endurance. After all, what is a team of thieves like the Cooper gang without some brawn? Together we make a good group."  
**  
**"Yes," said Sly, "Friendship gets us through; what would we be without it."  
**  
** As Sly finished the conversation, Murray and Bentley both looked at each other and nodded in an agreeing way. Cleary they all agreed on that value. Everyone exchanged smiles again before turning back to their previous vigils. Murray hugged the wheel tightly and Bentley sat back against his computer desk propped against the wall of the van. Sly also sat back and relaxed on the flatbed. He sighed with satisfaction. As he sat back, one more thought came to his mind. Lifting the file from his pack a second time, Sly reached forward and tapped Murray on the shoulder.  
**  
** "Let's try and get back to the hideout quickly hey pal," Sly said encouragingly, "Then we can crack this file open. Now that it's in our hands, I'm looking forward to continuing my family's noble line of thievery."  
**  
** "Sure thing Sly," Murray said in reply, "I'll get us back to the hideout in no time. Just a few more blocks and we should be there."  
**  
** The sun was now rising over the sky line and a golden light swept over the Parisian streets. The first lights of the night were being turned off and the usual hubbub of the workday was beginning. In the back streets the team van sped down another narrow alleyway before turning towards the railway yard and barrelling besides a set of tracks towards an old railway carriage resting in a rusty siding. The van coughed and the exhaust puffed a cloud of soot before it ground to a halt beside the carriage. There were a few clanking sounds and then Sly, Bentley and Murray hopped front the back doors of the van as they swung open. Together they strolled towards the rear of the carriage and strode up a set of strangely new looking metal stairs before twisting the handle on the door and swinging the wooden surface in a wide arc. If the aged look of the carriage on the exterior gave any wrong impressions, it was nothing compared with the interior.  
**  
** As the team strolled into the mahogany and decidedly period interior of the carriage, it could be seen that it was not filled with velvet seats and compartments as a normal carriage, but was instead lined with computers, pin boards and other various technology and modern upholstery. At the end through which they stepped was a series of pin boards and a small clock and compass system. On either side of the carriage sat a series of carved wooden plaques adorned each with a world map and certain items of different nationalities. On each map there had been a small series of tacks pinned up and stars placed, marking various locales. Notes and markings appeared intermittently.

Also above each placard sat an effigy of a character. On the first sat a squatting, frog like creature, the second a hulking bull dog, the third a venomous looking crocodile, the fourth a muscled panda and, last of all, a hateful looking sculpture of a cruel eyed owl, which was set in steel. Sly shivered in with nerves, anger and hate as he looked at the five characters. He had seen them once before, in the flesh and he knew who they represented; a gang of villainous criminals known only as the Fiendish Five. Even at that one encounter he had barely glimpsed their faces.  
**  
** Sly stood staring into the eyes of the characters for a few seconds before Murray tapped his shoulder to see if he was okay. Sly mumbled a few words to his friends and then walked towards the rear end of the room. Even as he passed the plaques he could not help but continue to keep his gaze trained on the eyes of the owl sculpture. He had only once seen the chilling eyes before and that had been just after his father had been killed. He barely knew anything about the cold hearted being that possessed them except that when those eyes appeared the room went cold. He shivered a final time before turning his gaze from the sculpture.  
**  
** Finally pushing the thoughts out of his mind, Sly turned to the end most quarter of the carriage. In this section sat a complicated computer system that was rigged up against the wall and a series of panels allowed an inspection of all the workings. Before the system sat a thick desk made entirely of wood that had a steel plate bolted to the front and top of its surface. Behind the desk sat a battered and well worn looking office chair on wheels and on the surface of the desk lay a master computer, a handful of dividers, a desk lamp and a scattering of various stationery items. As if to complete the picture, a wire waste paper basket sat by the desk which was half filled with scrunched up papers. The whole setup looked somewhat like the office of a nutty professor. Beyond the desk the only objects were a steel door leading to the sleeping, bathroom and kitchen area and a set of glass windows enclosed by red curtains. It may have been unusual, but it was the hideout of the Cooper gang.  
**  
**Bentley and Murray walked up beside Sly and for a moment the three them were framed together; as if in a form of picture. Momentarily it gave a look of heroism to the three and the light shone between them. The image was broken suddenly however by Bentley who coughed and proceeded to make his way around the desk and plonk himself on the chair behind it. Murray sat heavily on a stool to Bentley's left and Sly, finding nowhere else at the present, sat on a crate containing computer fragments and assorted hardware for tinkering with.

Instantly after they sat, Murray slipped from his back pocket a rather squashed hot dog and then from a draw in a nearby cabinet a soft drink cup, which he appeared to have kept for just such an occasion. He began tucking into the hot dog with gulping bites. Bentley, after straightening his tie and pushing his glasses up his nose, coughed again and tried to speak. But he was cut off as Murray belched and accidently sent a globule of saliva onto his friends head. Rubbing his head in slight disgust and buffing his knuckles against his collar, Bentley began to speak again, but not before smiling back in answer to a conciliatory look from Murray.  
**  
** "Ah yes team," Bentley said, addressing the room at large, "Another successful heist. Now that we have Carmelita's scoop on Sly secured, we can move onto the bigger fish. And we all know what that is; tackling the Fiendish Five."  
**  
**"Ah - yum - oh yes," butted in Murray, in an effort to contribute to the conversation.  
**  
**"Yes that's right," said Sly, suddenly becoming interested and waving the file above his head, which he had taken from his pack. "Those fiends have it coming. We're not going to sit around while they gloat; we're going to do something about it. I'm still after that thieving villain Clockwerk for killing my father!" Sly finished his sentence with a note of conviction and defiance. His sudden flare in mood drew sympathetic looks from Bentley and Murray.  
**  
**"Ah yeah, that's right," said Murray as he finally managed to swallow a huge hunk of hotdog, "That pack of lunatics - let me get at them. I'll punch them until they've gone black and blue. Let's go and get them!" Murray punctuated his boisterous speech with a punch to the air and he fell backwards off his stool. **  
** "A-hem, yes Murray," said Bentley cordially, "That is the eventual plan, but first there are preparations to make. After the killings at Sly's home we only know that those fiends have spread to the four corners of the earth. They could be anywhere now and stronger than ever. We cannot go running all over the place or they'll be onto us. We shall have to handle this very carefully."

"Yes Bentley," said Sly, "But all the same, we should get moving. You know now that Carmelita will be hot on our tail since the Interpol job." He paused momentarily. "That will be another thing to deal with and you know how persistent Carmelita will be. She's always been keen on capturing the notorious Cooper gang and I bet she's not about to give up now."

The slightly smitten expression appeared on his face as he finished.

"Ah yes, I forget that point: I guess you're right," said Bentley in a flustered manner, "But still, that allows for some planning. I will not have those villains add another Cooper to their list. You know too well that Clockwerk has dogged your family for years and your name will not be attributed to his list; I will not have it." He paused for breath. "Another thing is that we hardly know anything about this Clockwerk. He has never appeared by name in any records I have perused. For all practical purposes he would seem to be anonymous. Who knows if he even is part of the original five that attacked your home? As far as I know he might have founded the group but they all report to one called 'The Master'."

Sly felt touched at Bentley's concern and as such he thought it appropriate to speak. He thought fleetingly of the mysterious deaths that had plagued the Cooper bloodline even before Clockwerk's time. There was something he was missing – something making the bigger picture. A presence stirred in his heart: a darkness and cold awakening once more.

"I feel gladdened at your concern Bentley," said Sly gently, "But we'll have to take risks to bring these thugs down; after all they are a ruthless bunch. We must not underestimate them." Then he allowed himself to return to his affectionate thoughts of Carmelita.

"Aw, don't' mind that Sly," said Murray, slurping some drink from his cup, "Just call me in if they try and harm a hair on your head and I'll punch them. They won't be able to stand the awesome might of my muscle. They won't know what hit them; if they invoke the wrath of The Murray!"

"Yes Murray, thanks for the comfort," Bentley muttered slightly disapprovingly, "But, muscle doesn't solve all problems; we have to have backup." He was answered with a series of slurping noises.

"As I always say," said Sly, "Keep an open mind when completing a job; it always gets it done most effectively. I'm sure that together, all our skills will be enough to take that gang down. I will make my father proud." He ignored the cold he felt, making it dissolve away.

All three of them swapped grim looks with each other at these words and sighed slightly. The job that now lay in front of them seemed quite tremendous. Not only did they have to take down five of the world's most deadly crime lords, but also regain Sly's family legacy. Now there was even the extra problem of having inspector Fox on their heels constantly. The prospect seemed bleak. But even as that thought crossed their minds, they hardened their resolves and sat back up to face each other.

"Well I guess that is that," said Murray in a grunting fashion, "We work together and achieve our goal. Just as the great thieving legacy of the Cooper family before us. We better get to it then."

"Yes pal," Sly said, "We better get onto it right away. Those fiends already have sixteen years head start on us and they have the upper hand. It's time to get that plan into gear."

"Precisely Sly," said Bentley in an assertive fashion, "That is why I have already set up the action plan. I was just waiting for the appropriate moment after the Interpol job to get it going. Now that we have all necessary, my plan can begin."

Sly brightened at Bentley's last words and his ears pricked up. He spoke just as Murray gulped an extra large mouthful of soft drink and choked. Turning back to Bentley as Murray coughed, Sly spoke.

"Why you read my mind before I said it," Sly said, feeling slightly amazed, "Well that does explain the notice boards on the walls. Each board represents a member of the five?"

"Yes that is correct," said Bentley with pride, "Long into the hours of the night have I been working on those noticeboards and finally I have it. Each map marks the current location of a member of the Fiendish Five. Using those directions we can track down those thugs and reclaim what is rightfully yours Sly."

Returning Bentley's look of pride, Sly swept his gaze around the walls of the carriage and eyed the noticeboards. He now noted the clever way in which Bentley had used cartography to mark the maps and how the items scattered beneath them were appropriate. Where he could see the first map marked 'Wales', he could see a small selection of appropriate artefacts to the region. The same could be said for all the other maps. The other four maps listed locales as exotic as Utah, Haiti, the Kunlun Mountains and the Krakov volcano on the Svalbard Islands. Maps of Norway and Russia were both pinned to the board. Apparently the final member of the five operated out of Russia, with a major base in Norway.

Sly was deeply impressed at his friend's preparation. Clearly while he and Murray had slept, Bentley had been planning the maps for months; just looking at the interior of the room made him know that the Cooper family was in safe hands. The Fiendish Five were going to get a shock. Sly narrowed his eyes at the owl sculpture that he now recognised fully as Clockwerk and hitched a brave expression onto his face. That fiend would pay.

"Well gang," said Bentley in an effort to regain Sly's attention, "Let's get back onto the plan tonight, we need to rest, especially you Sly. I will relate the schedule completely at tonight's briefing and then we shall get into action. I promise you that Sly; those villains will be getting their just desserts. But time to rest. I'll see you both tonight."

Bentley yawned and he clambered from his chair. Waving to sly and Murray he made for the door at the rear of the room. Swinging it wide he turned and waved for the others to follow. Murray, having finally finished his snack, rolled onto his haunches and Sly sprung onto his feet. As they all walked through the door, they exchanged last minute greetings.

"See you tonight mates," said Murray, yawning, "Sleep well both of you."

"Okay buddy," said Sly grinning, "See you tonight too."

"I'll see you both tonight as well," said Bentley indignantly, "After I have a soothing nap", he added as an afterthought.

"Yeah, okay Bentley," said Sly, conceding, "I'm looking forward to your briefing tonight. Time for some well earned rest." And with that final sentiment, the three friends marched through the door and snubbed it behind them.

Sly lay awake in his bed that afternoon. Beside him, Murray and Bentley dosed fitfully in their own beds and Murray snored loudly. Bentley gave a delicate murmur and rolled onto his side. Sly turned away from his sleeping friends and returned to the patch of ceiling he had been scrutinising for the past half hour. He thought deeply and as he remembered his musings, he felt himself drift away from the room. He seemed to float above his own body and then, as if delving into his own memory, he soared towards his own face and through his own eyes. A searing tongue of light bolted across his vision and as he entered his own thoughts, Sly found himself sitting on his father's lap sixteen years earlier. As the dream became more vivid, Sly began to recount the events of those many years before.

He remembered clearly now. He had been only five years old at the time he had been bouncing on his father's lap, his father telling him he would one day inherit the noble skills of the Cooper thieves. He remembered that had been when he had first learned what he was destined to become. His family had been a series of master thieves that had always robbed powerful villains and crime lords. They had never been a low down family who stole from the average person or the poor. After all as his father had told him, there was no honour, no challenge, and no fun in stealing from an innocent person. Besting the masters and those who really deserved it was what made the Cooper thieves great.

This had always been a time honoured code, and the blood line would always follow that rule. Neither was a true Cooper ever caught unintentionally. Sly remembered promising to his father at the time that he would never break that code. He was proud to say that he had always kept that promise. That promise meant much to him. It reminded him of his dead father. He knew when he could someday join the noble line as his own thieving entity; he would aspire to and possibly pass the greatness of the Coopers. Then one night that had all changed.

On the terrible night that the remainder of the Cooper line had been torn apart, Sly had been about to receive the greatest treasure they had ever created. The treasure had been an ancient tome known as 'The Thievious Raccoonus' which was a centuries old book created by the Cooper clan and it detailed every single thieving move and daring skill ever created in the long history of the Cooper family. It was an endless compendium and repository of thieving knowledge that had enabled the generations of Cooper's to pass down their unique know-how of thievery to continue the legacy.

Sly knew that anyone who read the book could become a master thief from the thousands of skills detailed within. As his father before him, Sly knew that that had been the night he was to finally learn those sacred skills and take his place as a testament to the Cooper line; even to write his own entry into the great book. But his destiny to join his family had been torn away from him that very night and the legacy of the Coopers shattered.

The Coopers had long known that there were those who were jealous of their thieving skills and strived to destroy them. One such enemy in recent years had been the Fiendish Five. That night had been the night that Clockwerk, a horrific lord of crime and deceit, had finally led the vicious gang right to the Cooper family and thus sought to strike at the heart of the legacy; forever destroying it. Clockwerk, that malicious and mysterious, unknown entity: Sly's memories shivered and became clearer as he remembered further.

That night, five unannounced visitors had come to the door. Sly remembered his father's yell at him to run and hide for his own safety. He remembered the five fiends breaking down the door and smashing their way through the house. Unarmed, his father had fought bravely to stop the fiends but he had been killed. Sly also remembered hiding in the cupboard at the time, cringing and crying as he watched his father fall at the hands of the thugs. His lifeless body on the floor, kicked aside as the fiends ransacked the whole place. Sly had been the sole survivor and with him he had carried the Cooper cane, the relic which symbolised any Cooper. The cane with which he had pulled every job he, Bentley and Murray had ever completed since that fateful day. It was also a reminder of his father.

Then the villains had committed the final act through which they had intended to destroy the Coopers. They ransacked the house until they found the vault in which was stored The Thievious Raccoonus. Seizing the sacred tome all had swept it from the house and far from Sly's lone reach. He could have done nothing to stop them. On his own he had been powerless against them. They had torn the book into five sections and each villain had stolen a part of it. Disappearing to the four corners of the world, the book had disappeared along with the villains and fallen into obscurity. But that wasn't the only thing that had fallen. That same night the Cooper legacy of thieves had fallen and with the book, all the timeless knowledge rubbed out as if it had never existed. With the remaining Coopers apparently killed, though by who or how he didn't know, Sly had been left at an orphanage to live out his childhood - fatherless.

It was there that he had first met Bentley and Murray who from then on been his lifelong friends. He still remembered the times they had spent at the orphanage, concocting child-like plans to steal the biscuits and sweets in the kitchen. Their nightly jaunts through the corridors and the times they spent huddled under blankets with torches. That seemed so long ago now.

Bentley had been the brains of the outfit with his glasses, smarts and rapier wit. Murray had always been the muscle and brawn of the group, bringing what neither Sly nor Bentley had in muscle. Sly still remembered him eating the crayons Bentley used to draw their plans. And then there had been Sly himself; the charm, agility and guile of the group. An outsider, somewhat like Bentley and Murray - both of them left parentless and lonely. That special connection had bonded them. Together, at that orphanage, they had created their own family. That had been when Sly's life had finally turned around.

When they had all turned old enough they had left the orphanage and started the Cooper gang. Each of them promised to bring his talents to the group and together continue the noble traditions of the Cooper family. From then on it had been jobs and heist, leading an almost luxurious life, always on the run from authorities. Over the years they had collected treasures such as the team van which Murray loved and other various technologies with which Bentley carried out various schemes.

Finally they had become known as the infamous Cooper gang; always on the run and never getting caught. Sly himself had become quite a prominent figure in police files around the world and especially in France, his birth place. Carmelita had attributed to that. Then it had moved on to the later years and Sly had finally again thought of the long lost Thievious Raccoonus. His mind boiled to think of the unrighteous fiends with their filthy hands upon it.

It had secretly been his ambition to finally restore his family's book and once again rekindle the smothered fire of his legacy. Although the Fiendish Five had long since disappeared into the world, he knew that one day it was his destiny to restore the book. It was like a thread tugging at him. Despite the interventions attempted by Clockwerk Sly knew that his destiny was what he made it. The book had rightfully been his and should have passed into his hands.  
The Fiendish Five had no right to lay their grubby hands on it and they knew it.

The Cooper family had meant to pass its skills through the years and Sly was not about to let that be destroyed. Someday he was certain he would still be able to write his own ventures into the book. He would not let his destiny be taken from him. It was his actions that would now determine the fate of his family. The Coopers were in his hands. He would either become a master thief or let the legend of his family name bite the dust.

It was for that reason that Sly had wanted a crack at the five for many years and his chance had finally come. He knew that his father would have wanted it. He knew that the legacy was meant to be continued. And he would not let that dyeing wish be broken. His legacy had been broken, but it was not destroyed. The Coopers would rise again and one day goes down in history as the greatest thieves of the age. And Sly had also kept a small place in his memory for his father's one other wish. He had never broken the Cooper code of honour and no matter what challenges were ahead of him to reclaim the legacy, it would remain as so. Clockwerk had failed to destroy the Coopers: the bloodline had been but fractured.

Silently Sly pledged that together he, Bentley and Murray would honourably restore the glory of the Coopers. He and his friends would finally destroy the menace of Clockwerk, the symbol of darkness and hate and bring justice and honour once more to the world. Finally he would return the Thievious Raccoonus to its former glory and the Cooper legacy would be reborn. Sly was set and ready now. He need not delay any longer. He knew already what he had to face. And beside him all the way would be his friends Bentley and Murray. Maybe there was still room in the great book for two more thieves. He would accept his destiny.

The first rays of night shone through the blinds of the train carriage. The stars twinkled like drops in the sky and their gentle light bathed the room in a cool glow. Sly awoke from his turbulent slumber to find Bentley and Murray already dressed in their gear and standing by his bed, ready for action.

"You had a good rest Sly?" Bentley sounded concerned as he spoke. "You'll need your strength after all. It's going to be a big job."

"Yeah, I slept pretty nice thanks pal," Sly murmured in reply "I should be well rested for the briefing. Let's get cracking."

He rubbed his eyes and hopped lightly from the mattress. The threesome strolled back towards the door to the first carriage and swung the handle. Together they stepped over the threshold of the study and into the room. Bentley once again mounted himself behind his desk and Murray perched himself on a lumpy sofa that Bentley had drawn out for the occasion. Sly sat beside Murray and they settled in to listen. Bentley rolled out a miniature version of the first map, the one emblazoned with frog effigy. He pointed towards a spot he had marked and spoke.

"Wales," he said simply, "That is our first target and for good reason. It is currently the closest hiding place of the first member of the Fiendish Five; Sir Raleigh the frog. I believe Sly that he is in possession of one of the missing sections to the Thievious Raccoonus. For this reason he must be taken down along with the rest."

"Yes, I would have to agree," said Sly, "After all I have as much a goal to set with Raleigh than any other member of that gang, especially Clockwerk. He won't know what's coming"

"Yeah, fists and fury," bellowed Murray excitedly, "This is where the fun begins. Let's do this thing. I'm all for it." He hopped up and down happily on his seat and several feathers went flying.

"Quite so Murray," said Bentley, "You'll get your chance to swing a few fists at some thugs. But for now it is Raleigh first and foremost. Get to him and we are one step closer to restoring the Thievious Raccoonus."

"And restoring my family legacy," said Sly with conviction, "The Fiendish Five and Raleigh included will feel the full might of the skill they are dealing with."  
"Yes that is true also," said Bentley, "They will feel what they are dealing with. It is essential they know the Coopers will be here to stay this time. Never again will the legacy will be fractured."

A glow seemed to shine from Bentley as he spoke and Sly was awed at his friend's dedication to their cause. He grinned in happiness at having two such reliant and faithful companions. He knew he was lucky and he should count himself so. And he did count himself so; for it was the three of them that were about to end the reign of the villainous thugs. Together, as his father before him, Sly would bring down the Fiendish five and earn his rightful place in the Cooper legacy. He knew that now was the time and he was about to restore his destiny. It would be challenging and even fun. He knew along the way he would learn new skills and perhaps even become a master thief himself. As his relatives before him, he would lend his own taste to the Coopers. It was time to become the master thief he was destined to be.

"After all those years at the orphanage," said Sly, "We are at last to achieve a goal worthy of the Cooper name." He felt his chest swell with pride. "We shall equal the original Cooper gang and uphold their legacy, the legacy of my father's gang."

"As long as you don't let any feelings for Carmelita get in the way," Bentley teased, "But I know you can control your inner gentlemen Sly. I know just how much of a ladies' man you are."

"Why Bentley," said Sly in mock outrage, "I'm surprised at you: normally so gentlemen like yourself. And anyway, I think I can eschew my feelings for Carmelita, Miss Gorgeous that is, long enough to complete this mission."

"Of course you can Sly," said Murray, "While still retaining the gentleman you are I should think. It is undoubtedly true that the Inspector finds charm in you in the same way."

"Why thankyou my friend," said Sly, pretending to speak with a posh accent, "I am glad you think so." Murray laughed loudly with amusement.

"Alright, we have had our fun," said Bentley, "Now we have to get serious. If you wish to uphold your father's legacy we need to be strategic." He stooped momentarily to think, but then he reached into a draw and removed three glasses. He filled each from a bottle of lemon-lime resting on the desk. "But I do think a toast is in order: to Sly's father and the return of the Cooper bloodline." He handed each glass around.

"I'll drink to that," said Murray, "Nothing more worthy to do so for." He gulped down half of the fizzy, pink soft-drink in one go and expelled another explosion of air.

"A decent contribution Murray," Sly said, struggling not to laugh, "To dad."

"Connor Cooper," they all said. Each raised his glass once in the air, before lowering it again and taking a sip.

Sly glanced around at his two best friends. The two friends he had had for most of his childhood and now all of his teens and into early adulthood. Together they had time and again bested old Miss Puffin, grouchy owner of the orphanage, before they had come out into the world. All of this had happened with the three of them, together. Both Bentley and Murray were worthy friends and more so; he was truly lucky to be their friend. He was lucky he could be worthy as they were. And what of Carmelita - what story had she to tell?

How had she grown up from childhood? There was definitely a lot about her Sly didn't know. In fact, he hardly knew very much at all. He hoped that someday, in the course of this adventure, he would be fortunate enough to find out her past. Maybe, just maybe, it could work. And maybe, just maybe, there was room for Carmelita to slip in beside him. He could not deny that he desired her presence more than ever now. She would be part of this adventure. The tables were set: the dice was rolling. Watch out Clockwerk and the Fiendish Five, he thought, the Cooper gang is coming!

Outside the carriage, hidden by the shadow of some large rolling stock, a lone figure crouched. One could just see the right side of his face. He wore glasses on a pointed, beak-like noise and had a fringe of greying hair. He was going bald. He wore what looked like a Michel Rouen tie about his neck. Clutched in his hand was a bizarre looking radio receiver. He turned it on. The device hummed and crackled quietly. Glancing once more at the carriage opposite his hiding place, the figure spoke into the receiver.

"I have found him," whispered the figure, "I have tracked him along with the two others to railway yards just outside of Paris."

"Your son?" questioned the other voice, "Do you intercept now?"

"No, not yet," replied the figure hesitantly, "Now is not the time. I think it is best for me to continue trailing the Cooper gang for now but not to interfere."

"As you instruct," complied the other voice, "What is the next move?"

"I have listened in on their conversation and I believe they are headed for Wales first," he said. "I will follow them there. But I need some transport."

"Wales," the other voice said sharply, "You mean where Sir Raleigh is hiding out. I fear it may be dangerous to enter the Welsh Triangle alone."

"I must," spoke the figure firmly, "They are in grave danger, especially my son: if my device is to fall into the wrong hands, who knows what will happen."

"Stringer will be stopped," said the other voice, "He must be stopped - the Vortex is too dangerous to be left unnoticed. If Stringer succeeds in his alliance with The Master, the world will be in mortal danger."

"As well as my son," said the figure, "While he continues this mission he could be used as leverage against us. I cannot let that happen."

"Of course you cannot," replied the other voice, "It will not. But we must secure The Spear-Head or we risk total annihilation. The device is not yet complete but Stringer has already supplied what components he can to the five. You must aid The Cooper Gang in getting these back before it's too late."

"It will be done," said the figure, "My own invention will not endanger the world. I must rescue my son and ensure the safety of his friends. I will conceal the remaining segments of my device from Stringer's prying eyes and hands. I have my mission."

"Okay then," said the voice, "You must go ahead as you see fit. Do whatever necessary but do not compromise your secrecy. Do not use violence or force. This mission must stay covert." The radio crackled with static.

"I understand," whispered the figure, "I will contact you again when I am in Wales. For now, all our fates are intertwined - Agent Reptile signing out." The radio was switched off and tucked into a pocket. With a brief glance back towards the carriage, the figure vanished.

**This is Chapter 3 of 3 in Part 1.  
The story continues in Part 2: A Tide of Terror.  
I hope you enjoyed this part and will read more of the story - it's getting quite long now. Enjoy!**


	5. Chapter 4 - Under The Rain

**Part Two: A Tide of Terror.**

**Chapter Four: Under the Rain.**

**Paris, France: 5:37 AM.**

Carmelita stood atop the cobblestone wall of the Interpol car park. Although Cooper had disappeared beyond the arch to the concrete lot an hour ago, she still stood there, staring after him. Finally she shook her head and turned to the wreckage of the vehicles behind her. The area was quite a mess with a scattering of twisted metal and crumbled cobblestones. About ten minutes after Cooper's flight, there had been the sound of several sirens and a handful of Interpol vehicles had torn over the road, their tires screeching, and had barrelled into the car park. Several officers had piled out and upon seeing Carmelita perched upon the wall, began firing questions at her. She had been only too happy to comply.

Upon discovering the flight of Sly, the officers had sprung up and raced around the scene in a frenzy of activity. An Interpol truck had pushed its way into the car park and several more officers had piled out. They had lugged with them a series of heavy equipment and immediately began combing the area. Several more offices had then scooped up magnifying glasses and tool boxes and proceeded to fiddle with the fused engines of the smashed cars and examine the bonnets for foot prints. They also used small brushes to dust of the fragments of rubble.

This reaction was commonly caused as Sly Cooper had never been caught. Worldwide, he had always escaped the law and Interpol were well aware of it. Carmelita herself was frustrated at Cooper's escape. She had nearly had him in her grasp. It would have meant so much to Interpol – so much for her carrier. Still she though, there was always another day. Lost in her thoughts, Carmelita did not notice the officer come up behind her.

"Ah inspector Mademoiselle," said the officer nervously, also in a vague French accent. "A word, if you please." The noticeable British twang to his French caught her attention.

Carmelita twitched slightly and she turned around to face the officer standing in the car park below her. It was a Labrador. She knew that this was Sergeant Higgins; the head of the detection department. She noted his slightly sweaty face and the nervous tug at his shirt collar. Cleary he seemed slightly uncomfortable at being in the presence of his superior. As such, she decided to expel his discomfort. Leaping lightly from the wall, she pounced lightly from the bonnet of a car and landed gently at his feet. Pushing herself up and brushing some rubble dust off her vest, Carmelita spoke.

"Yes Sergeant, what is it you would like to enquire?" she said encouragingly. Then as if to bolster him to speak, she said, "Please don't feel daunted Higgins, I was only in thinking to myself. I would like to hear what you have to say."

"Ah – well – yes - right," said Higgins, trying to regain his train of thought, "We have discovered a minor hitch in proceedings. After an extensive search of the area and the building, we have discovered something missing. That is to say the file that was in your vault Mademoiselle is ah, missing." He smiled slightly ashamedly at her and hung his head. Carmelita however did not seem annoyed. On the contrary, she grinned at the news and passed a reassuring look in the sergeant's direction.

"Fear not Higgins," said Carmelita, "I expected as much. Cooper was sure to come after those papers some time or another. It was only a matter of waiting."

"Oh well, I suppose so," said Higgins, "I guess that's all then inspector. Nothing else was missing. In fact, everything else other than the file seemed to be in comparative neatness and order. The only real mess was caused here, when you tried to stop Cooper escaping."

Carmelita nodded, as if affirming her thoughts and gave her reply. "That would fit Cooper's style Higgins," said Carmelita in a rather unsurprised manner, "He always did like to think of himself as a gentleman; especially where I am concerned I believe."

The Sergeant nodded with a seemingly thoughtful full look in his eye. He adjusted his belt over his dark blue trousers before answering. "Well Inspector," he said, apparently feeling uncertain, "I guess you would have Cooper squared on that one. After all you have spent the last few months on his trail. Still, he has managed to always keep that one step ahead of us. Even being a gentleman he is still a thief." He coughed slightly as he jangled a pair of hand cuffs at his belt before adding, "Remember you can't let Cooper cloud your judgement. No matter what his feelings for you, he is a thief before and after. As one of the world's foremost law enforcers, Interpol is dedicated to the eradication of crime."

"Yes, thank you for the clarification." said Carmelita in a crisp snap, "I assure you Sergeant that Cooper's feelings are of none of my concern. No matter what Cooper feels for me, I remain loyal to our cause. Have no uncertainty I assure you; Interpol will one day capture Sly Cooper at my hands."

"Very good then mademoiselle," said Higgins, "I m glad that Cooper has no impact on your actions; now, down to business. The inspection boys and I have agreed that it is time that Cooper should be returned to justice. I feel that the best way to eventually capture him is to have him trailed. I also believe that, as we agreed, you would be best for that job. You have the best knowledge of Cooper's movements. I assure you too that there would be many honours involved if Cooper were captured. As told to me by Inspector Barkley in person."

"Thank you Higgins," said Carmelita, "But I need no medal for the capture of Sly Cooper; it would personally be a tribute to capture him myself. After all, I am already ready for it. I believe I know Cooper's next move. He is heading for Whales. I am sure that he is going after that other gang of criminals we have been trailing; the Fiendish Five. I am ready to make Barkley proud and prove I am a worthy successor to the department."

Higgins gulped and gave a nervous look towards the officers lingering about the area. Turning back again, he spoke at last. "Yes, though I suppose that is not necessarily comforting, after all the Fiendish Five are even more sticky customers, even more so than Cooper. In fact, that bunch of hooligans makes him look quite the gentleman. If that is so, you will have rather a hand full in collecting Cooper. I am ready to provide any back up you might need."

His heart quickening, love hearts seemed to bloom in the air about him.

"Thank you for the concern Higgins," said Carmelita gratefully," That would be appreciated. But I am sure it will be another notch on both belts if Interpol also takes out the Fiendish Five. They area also as infamous as Cooper in the few years they have ruled the underworld. But like Cooper, they will not long escape the reach of the law."

Higgins gazed for a moment at Carmelita, as if in apparent awe of her confidence. Then pulling himself together, he replied. The love hearts popped promptly.

"I am glad you are so confident Mademoiselle," he said, sounding relived, "I am sure that the Cooper and now The Fiendish Five case will be in safe and capable hands. Please feel free to commence as soon as you feel ready. The team and I will be standing by with back up. I too am intent upon doing whatever I can to uphold the law – as is my sister." He gave Carmelita a final look and straightened up. But just as he was about to turn and go, Carmelita decided she should speak.

"Thank you for the support Higgins," she said in a meaningful way, "I will set out after Cooper as soon as everything is in order here. And do not worry; I am sure the Fiendish Five will be in our hands soon, you can count on that. I promise it. So long Sergeant, and good luck." Carmelita raised her right hand in a form of salute as a final greeting.

Higgins bowed low and upon standing up again, touched his cap in a formal manner before turning back towards the car park and marching smartly through the inspection. Carmelita briefly looked after him before turning towards the gaping exit of the parking lot.

She knew what lay ahead of her - perhaps the most difficult task she had faced in her life. Like Cooper, she somehow suspected they were both on a journey; a journey that meant more than retribution to both. Even though she had said she cared not for Cooper to Higgins, she also knew a part of her had been lying. She did care about the raccoon. Even with all his guile and devilish charm, she couldn't help feeling something for him as he undeniably did for her. There had always been that strange, almost romantic connection between them. What Cooper had said in the car park had gone to her heart. She had opened a gradually widening door to him and he had slipped inside. Somehow she knew that, no matter how opposite they seemed, somehow they seemed meant to be together.

She shook herself. There was also one other idea that somehow drew her to Cooper. He had lost his family at an early age. He had been forced to live a life on his own, without family and love. She knew that was where Cooper's friends had come in. Like a broken dam, they had flooded in and filled the void. Together they made a roguish, but that undeniably loving group of friends. As she had thought in the car park too, she had always admired that. Unlike Cooper, she never truly had friends.

Orphaned at an early age, while growing up as a little girl in her home - a little Spanish village - she had lost her parents. Killed in a raid by thieves and plunderers who had attacked the village, looking for whatever spoils they could find, she had also been orphaned. Losing the love and comfort of her family as Cooper had done. From that day she had sworn to oppose injustice and tyranny. As soon as she had been old enough, she had travelled from her home country Spain and set about asserting herself in an Interpol position; it was her destiny. She had survived for a reason and this was it: ensure goodness remained in the world.

In her early years she had decided to cover up her humble origins and pretend she had always come from a law empowered family. In those years she had strived to assert herself deeply into law enforcement and become who she felt destined to be. She had eventually managed to hide her Spanish accent behind the thickness of the French. She had started observing those customs which blended her in with the country. That was one thing she had never revealed to her fellows. She was never French by birth.

With a small smile, she also remembered that Cooper had never known that of her either. On her own, she had learned to become one of them. She had done everything necessary, except one thing. She had never changed her name. That was one aspect that would always stay the same. Having her name reminded her of her long dead parents. This bought a tear to her eye. A single pearlescent tear rolled over her cheek and plopped onto her boot. She sniffed and brushed the tear from her boot. She straightened up and reminded herself of her goal. She was an inspector now and that was behind her.

The best thing she could do for her dead parents now was to achieve her goal. She felt pain and anguish, but she had to overcome this. She still had the love for her parents. She was her father's daughter: brave and enduring. Emotions were in conflict within her, but she attempted to stem their endless flow. What was done was done and she had to focus. But she could not deny the hatred she felt for thievery and crime. Then why was she so attached to Cooper, after what had happened to her? She could not answer this question.

Carmelita arched her back and turned towards the darkness of the night that was now beginning to lighten beyond the arch. She patted the red pistol, again in her holster, and smiled. She was ready. It was the time for her to go forth and do what would have made her parents proud. She would not stand alone and let their deaths be in vain. She took a single step towards the arch. A single step is but one amongst a thousand on the twisting road to destiny she thought. Still, she was ready to take that first step. She stared ahead of her. The pain of emotion she felt made her halt, but only momentarily. This, the events to come, was to be her destiny.

"I have strived repeatedly to maintain justice," she whispered to herself, "This is what I do, what a like to do – protect the rights of the common man. Fight for innocent people. And that is what I shall do; I shall not compromise these values. Even..." Her bottom lip shook. "Even if Cooper must cross my path I will stand fast and tall."

She was worthy of it, she knew she could do this. Cooper would be far away by now, but she would soon be behind him, every step of the way. No matter what she thought, maybe there was still room in her heart for Sly Cooper.

**The Welsh Triangle, Off the South Coast of Wales: 2:14 PM.  
**  
The torrent of rain poured down on the world below as if it had no other interest rather than to turn the ground into mud. Large puddles gathered and rippled on the rutted dirt track that wound its way over the hills and hillocks of the south English coast. Dotted about the barren landscape were a small selection of grubby laurel bushes and withered stumps of trees. Some stones also lay about, strewn over the fields that were boarded by cobbled stone walls. Even at early afternoon, it was relatively dark. But rain seemed quite a recurring event in Wales. Here, on the wild coast, it never stopped at all.

Then as if to spark the monotony, a sudden light blazed over the hills from the east and a vehicle crested over the steep rise. It pushed its way through the slurping mud and with its tires rolling, ground its way further along the track. The blazing light shone from the vehicles large head lights. It was a large truck with a light purple exterior and a caricature of a raccoon's head painted on the side. It was the Cooper van. The van seemed to be headed for a remote promontory that reached out like a bow from the stony coast. The grooved tracks lead towards it and then extended along the promontory for some way before disappearing between an assortment of boulders and craggy edifices of stone.

Further behind this, a series of jagged looking lime stone stacks jutted dangerously from the water and surrounded a haphazard series of cliffs that formed a wind and rain swept island. The island itself was composed of a rabble of smaller rocks and stacks that were covered in low hanging bushes and moss. A large stone pile then rose from the island which had a foaming waterfall tumbling down its face. Together the windswept features of the island formed what looked like a very treacherous hunk of rock.

As the van chugged closer through the mud and rain, sheer cliffs rose upwards from the ground and jagged spears of granite pierced the earth like giant arrows. It looked very foreboding and isolated, quite the perfect place for a villain to hide out. Another useful aspect of the dangerous promontory was that there was just one way in and out by road; meaning that any enemies could easily be trapped on the island.

It also didn't look exactly inviting to attempt any escape by sea, for the billowing and sucking sea that lined the sheer cliffs smashed themselves with such ferocity on the rocks and sent such quantities of foam into the sky that it made any escape by boat quite impossible. Any vessels coming anywhere near the island would surely be dashed and sunk on the rocks. The constant rain also only served to worsen the violent conditions of the Welsh south coast. But that was the way it had been for years. The Promontory sat right at the edge of one of the world's most treacherous bodies of water known as the Welsh triangle.  
The van had now pushed its way entirely onto the narrow drive of gravel that ran down the centre of the outcrop running towards the promontory.

Rocks and pebbles ground and crunched themselves underneath the thick tires and some errant gravel flew from the path and tumbled down the face of the cliffs and was swallowed up by the foaming depths of the Welsh sea. The water foamed and growled in a menacing thunder of sound, licking its way up the cliff as if it wanted to swallow the van. Soon the outcrop narrowed to such an extent that there was barely a metre of ground on either side of the road. By now, the heavy rain was beginning to make loud clanging sounds against the duco of the vehicle which added to the noise of the sea and wind outside.

In fact, the conditions were beginning to become so severe that Murray had to hug the wheel to his chest just to keep the van from plummeting onto the rocks abreast of the swirling sea. Finally, the large lights mounted on the van cut through the darkness to reveal that the promontory was now beginning to widen and ahead of them lay a yawning gap in the cliffs. Some scraggly grass clung to the stone and struggled to clasp onto its precarious perch as the wind constantly battered it. Glancing behind the van, it could now be seen that the coast was at least a hundred metres behind, lying at the beginning of the outcrop. The beginning of the gravel drive was almost hidden by the torrential rain but could just be made out.

Meanwhile, only a darkish blue blotch indicated the coast line of Whales. The only land seen clearly was the jagged line of rock that jutted out from the promontory with the road mounted on it. It was quite clear as to why Raleigh had chosen the location for his hide out. Concealed by the rain and foam that seemed to be constantly present, it could barely be glimpsed from the fields on the coast.

Murray swung the gear stick to his right and the van jarred to a sudden halt. The mud squelched beneath its tires and the rain continued to patter the exterior. The wave of light now bathed a hulking outcrop ahead of it and embedded into the stone could be seen a large steel gate, two flaming torches standing beneath the frog effigy mounted above it. A large hunk of steel that made up a lock could be seen twisted around the bars of the gate and a series of weather worn looking signs made of drift wood littered the grass at its front. Sly now suspected that from Bentley's brief in the dossier that the statue on the gate matched the criminal's description: squat, crouched, and with a series of lopsided teeth and a huge and bobbled hat.

The signs that lay beneath the gaze of the sculpture read: keep out, no trespassing, private property and offenders shall be prosecuted. The final word of the last line had been inked in with some ferocity and it seemed that whoever had written it got glee out of the message. Clearly, Raleigh didn't want any hint of his criminal activities escaping that lonely corner of the Welsh triangle. It didn't look like that wish would be granted for very much longer.

As the van idled beside the towering gate, a small patch of clouds rolled across the sky and concealed the little light that the moon provided. The vehicle now lay in a patch of darkness that was increased by the towering cliffs. The only real light that enlightened the darkness was the headlights that still blazed against the wrought steel of the gate. Even though the Cooper gang intended to gate rash Raleigh's operation imminently, it looked as if he would have plenty of breathing space. With the huge lock in place, the gate would be staying firmly closed. Meanwhile, the gang sat bemused inside the van, struggling to think of what to do next while the violent weather tore around outside. It was easy to picture Raleigh gloating within his sanctuary while they were trapped at the edge of the promontory.

Finally, Bentley decided that it was time for someone to speak. He broke the silence with the usual cough and then he spoke.

"Ah yes team," said Bentley, trying to encourage the silence around him, "It appears we have hit a bit of a dead end."

"Yes, it is a dead end," said Sly gloomily, "The only way onto that promontory is through that gate. Besides, it would be too dangerous to try and bring the van around this area with this kind of weather."

"Too true," groaned Murray sadly, "There is no way we will be getting through that gate soon. Besides, I'm not willing to leave my baby behind." He gave the dashboard of the van a loving pat.

"I sympathise with you Murray," said Sly sympathetically, "After the stealing of my family's Thievious Raccoonus, I'm never leaving anything precious behind either."

"A good sentience Sly," Bentley said approvingly, "That kind of attitude is what will give us an advantage over the Fiendish Five. But before we can even start on that, we have to figure out this first obstacle." He nodded towards the gate that blocked their path.

"Yes buddy," said Murray, "Do you have any ideas? I may have brawn on my side, but even I couldn't put a dent in those gates. It looks like those fiends were well prepared."

"Well," mused Bentley in a wondering way, "I don't suppose we could use some small explosives. My bombs might just be able to blow open that lock. I think that is what we will have to do."

"Yeah, that's probably right," said Sly as he brightened at the prospect of blowing apart the Fiendish five's security. "Besides, I'm only too happy to give Raleigh an explosive greeting." Sly grinned happily and sat back, lost in his thoughts.

"Wahoo!" bellowed Murray excitedly, "Time for some fun. Let's make a bang and blow the wind from them. They will never forget this heist." Murray then also sat back, in apparent bliss at the prospect.

"Well," said Bentley, gulping as he adjusted his collar, "Now that everyone has decided on that, I guess I should go and lay those bombs. The sooner we're in, the sooner we can reclaim those pages." He reached for the handle of the van's passenger door, but as he did so he turned back again. "Oh and by the way sly" he said, "You should probably read up on Raleigh's dossier; there is likely to be some information you should know. Then we can be more prepared."  
"Alright Bentley," said Sly obligingly, "While you lay those bombs, I'll get reading. Murray and I will be ready to go once you blow those charges."

Bentley nodded towards Sly and gave a wave to Murray before reaching down into the foot well and removing a satchel marked with a red symbol. It could just be made out that the label read 'explosives' in block letters as Bentley swung the worn satchel over his shoulder. He also removed a battered pith helmet from a metal hook on the wall and placed it on his pointed head.

Finally, all decked out in his garb, Bentley swung the door latch and the door swung out into the dark and rain. Bentley gulped slightly before lowering himself from the leather of the seat and onto the rain drenched ground. Then, gently closing the door behind him, he stepped out into the night. Watching through the windscreen, Sly and Murray could see him walking towards the thick lock which was bathed in the headlight. Then, seeing all was going well, Sly rifled through his pack and removed Carmelita's file from the assorted documents before extracting the dossier Bentley had drawn up on Raleigh. He flipped open the cover and begun to read.

Sir Eric Winchester Raleigh, a convicted member of the criminal organization known as the Fiendish Five, was born on the 5th of May, 1957. He was born to a rich family of much wealth in southern England where he enjoyed a life of privilege and luxury. While Raleigh was at the English high school for the gifted; he showed an in depth knowledge and interest associated with technology. In his third year he showed the ability to construct and operate basic machines. In his twelfth year he left school showered with awards and certificates for his skill. Eventually Raleigh completed a six year course in engineering at the University of London. He was again showered with honours and finally returned to his southern English home where he continued his interests with technology. For many years he gained much wealth and prestige from his fantastic inventions. Soon however, this ideal would change.

Raleigh began to become bored with his life of luxury and privilege. Soon he found himself becoming preoccupied more than ever with the idea of pirating and extorting wealth on the high seas. Raleigh knew that with the resources at his hands he could do whatever he wanted. At this point he heard tell of the criminal organisation know as the Fiendish Five and became infatuated with the notion. From what he knew, they were interested in acquiring a machinist for the organisation and Raleigh's technological skills were what fit the bill. Longing for excitement, Raleigh secretly signed on to the organisation and gained his dream of pirating wealth from ships, thus gaining a second, ill-gotten personal fortune. In return for the resources provided by the Fiendish Five, he was to provide technology and machinery for their operations. He became employed as the mad machinist of the Fiendish Five and from that point was known as a terror of the tides.

Using his new found reputation, Raleigh continued to try his hand at pirating and found it very profitable. Having gained all the stolen wealth sailing along the Welsh coast, he soon fell in love with pirating. Raleigh, who became addicted to crime, was now known as the 'Mad Machinist' of the Fiendish Five and the authorities decided he was dangerous to leave unchecked. However when they attempted to arrest the mad man, he escaped and disappeared along the coast of southern Wales. The last recorded sightings of this maniac were in a perilous stretch of sea known as the Welsh triangle.

This dangerous chunk of ocean suffers relentless storms and harsh climates with constant rain and wet. The desolate nature of the location was believed to have been a key point in Raleigh's decision to escape there. Several attempts have been made to hunt out the reclusive villain, but none have availed. Raleigh continues to wage terror on the stretch of coast in the south. The locals have even given the sea there a nickname; The Tide of Terror. Many lives have been lost in this region.

Some facts remaining still in common belief are that Sir Raleigh still optimises piracy as a means of gaining illegal wealth. Many wreaked ships and vessels are still found around the area today. Multiple items of much value have been found to go missing from museums and instates in the area. Interpol investigations are sure that this wealth and extortion fuels the crime machine that he is a part of.

Another strange phenomenon of the Welsh triangle is that it never seems to stop raining. Raleigh is believed to have created a sinister technology that allows his hide out to remain hidden. He may be able to manufacture and fabricate weather with one of his diabolical inventions. Until his hideout can be located however, this monster will continue to be a hazard of the seas. Affiliations and contact with the other four members of the Fiendish Five are unknown. All continue to conceal themselves from the eyes of the public.

Sly closed the cover of the file. Having finished reading its content, he set it upon the surface of Bentley's desk and thought. Raleigh seemed quite a tricky customer and it looked a difficult job to take him down. Plus, he thought to himself, what with the sinister technology, and the idea of being a mad machinist mentioned, it seemed like it would be even more of a task. Still, he thought, Bentley and Murray are by my side and I am ready for whatever challenge will be thrown at me. I'd be happy to take Raleigh on, he thought silently.

He knew that deep down he was ready for a new challenge. It was time to step out and test his skills. At the end of it all he would reclaim his family's legacy and diminish the reputation of the villainous five. He desired to make his father proud. At the thought of his father, Sly squared his shoulders and turned determinedly in the direction of the gate. He knew what he was up against and realised that he was a Cooper. This was a challenge that he could overcome, if he played his cards right. Come on Raleigh, The Terror of the Seas, he thought: its time you met your match.

At the same time, many leagues from where Sly sat, Carmelita thought the same thing. This was the beginning for all of them; a beginning of tremendous proportions in so many ways. Meanwhile, so much further away, many hundreds of miles, the enemy had awoken. His cold heart seethed with rage and hatred. At last, very soon, his time had come. Cooper was walking towards his destiny, just as he had planned. Patience – he must be patient.  
But time was no matter to him: he had lived beyond time, forced himself beyond such mortal boundaries.

He was no longer just living flesh and pounding heart, but a will of iron strength. He could not be destroyed like he had done to that idiot raccoon and every one of his family line. Now it was just his son, his little puny son; the very last of the Coopers. Their two legacies would meet as he knew they would. Time had at last run out for the fabled vigilantes. Then The Master would truly know - finally prove – who was the superior. Perfection had no age. The Cooper line was far from perfect, only vermin to be crushed in his web: a web which he had begun to draw tighter.

**This is Chapter 1 (4 overall) in Part 2 of 13.  
This was a bit shorter, but they are getting longer everytime I write a new one!  
They will be a bit more action later on in the plot. Enjoy reading it!**


	6. Chapter 5 - The Isle of Wrath

**Chapter Five: The Isle of Wrath.**

The rain continued to pound down upon the peninsula. Bentley ignored the heavy downfall and focused on the work at hand. Examining the hulking lock in the blazing light of the van, he felt satisfied with his work. Finally he was able to lean back and observe the ring of charges that covered the metallic surface. Counting the one he had just laid, there were now ten explosive charges, plenty enough to slice open the lock. What a punch it would make!

Bentley whipped a small remote from his now considerably light satchel and adjusted the antennae. Then he twiddled a small series of knobs and a red bulb flashed into life. At the same time, a small red bulb flared into life on each of the miniscule charges. A small beeping sound began to sound and a countdown appeared on the screen of the remote, counting down in block digits from thirty.  
**  
** Bentley had just those thirty seconds to run for cover. Spinning with his toes on the spot and hanging onto the brim of his pith helmet, to stop it falling from his pointed head, Bentley raced for the cover of a nearby moss covered boulder. As he watched the digits on his remote count down to zero, he quickly twiddled another dial on the device, pushed his glasses up his long nose and a radio crackled into life. Just as Murray's voice began to issue from the device, Bentley dived behind the boulder.  
**  
**"Hey Bentley, what's going on," said Murray worriedly, "Is everything all right? Is it all good? Are you hurt or something – you're not blown to pieces!"  
**  
** "Calm down, don't worry about me pal," said Bentley comfortingly, "I'm all right. I just thought I should tell you that the charges are about to blow apart the lock. It could go with quite a bang."  
**  
** "Okay Bentley," said Murray understandingly, "I'll tell Sly. We'll be ready when the charges blow. Be sure to take cover yourself and then in we go."  
**  
** "Thanks Murray," said Bentley, "I've already taken cover. Let's go and get him."  
**  
** There was a pleasing roar of appreciation from Murray across the line as Bentley dimmed the radio channel and the lights went out. He then tucked the remote back into his satchel and turned to watch as the charges were about to explode. He was just in time. A small bang sounded and then a tremendous tearing sound of metal and timber rent the night. A flash of fire and flame burst forth from the gate's surface and the lock turned red before splitting down its centre and shattering. The half melted segments of the lock thumped to the ground amidst a shower of sparks and smoke. Then as the final spirals of flame pinged of the metallic grate, a rumbling creak was heard and the gate swung wide, each side of the gate flinging inwards towards the rocky cliffs beside the road. The bars came to rest on the cliffs and the night fell silent again.  
**  
** Bentley raised his head and glanced around at the area in front of him. A few smouldering shards of iron lay smoking on the grass, strewn in front of the gate but apart from that there were no other signs of danger. Raising himself onto his feet and doing a full surveillance of the blast zone Bentley could also see that apparently no security had been alerted to their immediate arrival.

Satisfied with the task at hand, Bentley strode back towards the van and pocked his tongue out at the now grime splattered and still leering statue of Raleigh. You aren't seemingly so tough, he thought. With a small grin to himself, Bentley walked up to the passenger side of the van and swung the handle. The door popped open and Murray and Sly's grinning faces appeared. Their arms reached out and pulled Bentley into the welcoming interior. Glad to be out of the rain, Bentley snubbed the door behind him.  
**  
** "Well done buddy," said Sly enthusiastically, "I could not have done it better myself - an inspired entrance: blowing our way towards those fiends. Raleigh will remember that one when he's in jail, I'll make sure personally he doesn't forget!"  
**  
** "Uh, thanks Sly," said Bentley blushing in slight embarrassment, but appreciation, "I think we have effectively taken our first step."  
**  
** "Oh yeah," bellowed Murray, "That's an inspired entry all right; time to get some action. Thanks to you guys I can finally knock some heads together, ones that deserve it. Prepare to feel my fist of fury!" Murray gave a hearty belly laugh and keeled over on the steering wheel, in a fit of giggles. Sly and Bentley grinned at each other at Murray's amusement. Then without warning, they both broke into peals of laughter to. The whole group of them laughed their heads off for a few seconds before wiping tears from their eyes, straightening up and returning their attentions to the immediate situation.

"He, he, ha, ho, excuse me," said Sly, still giggling, "We really should get back to the task at hand. Let's start the van and power on before Raleigh's thugs get onto us."

"Ah-ha, ah-hem, pardon me," Bentley tittered, "Yes, Sly is right; we need to return our attentions to the current situation. Our entrance is now clear, so let's get going." He punctuated his last words with a punch to air and he coughed at the same time, jolting him off his seat. Bentley crawled out of the foot well and removed his pith helmet, placing it on the leather seat. He grinned good-naturedly at his friends.  
**  
** "Yes Bentley," said Murray, "Time to get going. I'll warm up the engine and then we're off!" Murray wiped a large fleshy hand over his light blue shirt and rubbing his hands together, grasped the steering wheel firmly. Tossing his cream woollen scarf over his shoulder so as to operate the dashboard, Murray swung the gear stick from parking to drive and the engine growled. Then he seized the clutch and threw it forwards. Instantly the tires found traction on the gravel and the van rolled onwards.  
**  
** "Hurray," hooted Sly, "Let's go, power on and down with the Fiendish Five. This is the moment my family and the Cooper gang will shine - time to begin." Sly finished dancing all over the seat and calming down, relaxed into a seated position on the invitingly squashy leather upholstery. The engine roared again and with a small jolt they had passed under the Iron Gate. The shadow of its silhouette passed over them as they ground into the narrow canyon beyond its arc.  
"The Murray approves!" came the voice from the driver's seat. **  
**  
A large torrent of rain continued to barrel down on the Welsh coast. Relentlessly it turned the ground into mud and washed away all traces of any tire tracks in the dirt. The previously visible tracks left behind by the Cooper van had now been washed away. Only a slurry trail of soil told that a vehicle had even passed that way. But still, she would not give up. Carmelita surveyed the miserable stretch of barren land that lay beside the churning sea. It was a windswept and forbidding place. The Fiendish Five were clearly experienced and the so called sir Raleigh was no exception. She remembered missions like this in her early youth. She had had to deal with slippery criminals for most of her life.

Ever since her parents had died at the hands of those criminals back in her native Spanish village. Some said she had a black and white outlook on crime. She thought it was necessary. When she had to deal with slime like the five, you couldn't take any chances. It was necessary to be that way in the world. She had to think that way to clear the separation of good from bad. Her relationship with Cooper had blurred the line: she now found it harder to differentiate the two.  
Many of these thoughts had been a message drilled into her during her training. Her mentor, an old badger by the name of Inspector Barkley had seen to that. While he had been a kind man, he had also always been strict on standards. It was shown in the way he ran Interpol. He had doubted her skills at first but when she had eventually recovered a certain stolen necklace in an escapade involving Sly Cooper, he had turned around.

Finally observing her skills, he had promoted her to a position at Interpol. From there she had pledged herself to capturing Sly Cooper. It had been her ambition ever since then and she was still after the raccoon. She determined to make the badger proud. But she did not forget what Sly had done. She might never have recovered the fabulous Diva Diamond if not for Sly. He had managed to apprehend Pierre and return it to her. With this success, her first mission, she had gone from a rookie to working full-time in law. She could not know how to feel towards him. She smiled privately to herself. She knew the raccoon had wanted all along to make sure she succeeded. He was indeed an unusual character.

There was one other reason as to why she always continuously trailed Sly Cooper. This secret had been kept right in her deepest knowledge. She had never let anyone know her true feelings. In her mind she thought he knew that there was at least a single reason for chasing Sly. He connected her with someone like herself; without a family and many friends in the world. She longed, secretly within herself that she could somehow be one with Cooper. But the barrier of thief and justice separated them. They could not be together. She knew it could not happen. Despite that, she felt that together, they completed each other.  
She sighed sadly and pulled down the officer's cap she wore over her curly hair. She clutched the handle of the pistol at her hips and stared unflinchingly towards the vague shadow of the windswept isle she could see, jutting out of the coast. Waving a hand to the trail of vehicles behind her she jumped back into the side of the leading car, snapped out a command in rapid French and they pushed forwards. _I'll be there soon Sly_, she thought.

A sudden burst of thunder and lightning lit the sky, thick with grey lumps of cloud rolling threateningly across the darkness. A resounding boom followed the burst and the echo seemed to rattle the very foundations of the narrow promontory. A selection of small pebbles and stones rolled down the cliffs and some limestone dust was scattered down the rock stacks, still standing like sentinels in the churning swell. Some of the dislodged stones rolled down the earthen edifices and struck the flanks of the van. They made tiny plinking thuds as each battered the metal. Together the gang huddled within its interior.

They were now coming towards the mouth of the gorge through which they had to enter Raleigh's hideout. The gate at the far end behind them was now just a looming shadow. But ahead of them a flickering light shone through the rain, as if a candle flame burned bright through the wetness. As the van drew out off the gorge and turned along a narrow rocky path, it could be seen that a smaller gate, about the size of a normal person stood at the abrupt end to the road. A small passage carved into the mottled rock lay behind it which twisted into the cliffs and onwards to the isle that lay behind.

Lying in front of the passage that passed through the rock face was a pair of huge flaming glass lanterns, alight each with a roaring flame and giving out the mysterious glow seen from the gorge. The light bounced from the metal of the gate and revealed a series of drift wood polls, crudely nailed into the grassy slopes and ringed with a frayed rope that created a small compound. Another set of thick drift wood polls hoisted the lanterns into the air. In front of the small compound, a single weather beaten and moss covered sign sat, also nailed into the ground. The message it boosted was simple but clear; welcome to the Isle of Wrath.

The gang stared at the sign's faded, black inked letters as the van drew nearer. The sign was also composed of roughly hewn drift wood and was leaning sideways, as if the area had not been attended for some time. Beyond the sign a final notice bearing a slightly pompous message, etched into a plank and tacked to the cliff itself read; none shall enter here without express permission of Sir Raleigh. Those choosing to break this rule shall be dealt with most harshly. It seemed as if he did not welcome visitors. Finally the group removed their gaze from the sign in withdrew away from the wind screen. The van rumbled closer and as they looked to either side of them, it was again seen that they were on a narrow stretch of rock which lead to the grassy grotto containing the signs. Either side of them churned with the wild Welsh seas and other strange objects were now beginning to appear.

Large masses loomed out of the swell and occasionally disappeared beneath the surface again before boobing upwards. Long and bulky wooden shapes were floating on the surface of the water, seemingly moving with the tide. Then at last one of the shapes rose momentarily from the water, suspended on a wave and the gang could see what it actually was. The strange shapes were wooden hulls of ships, being tossed about in the ocean. Tall masts sprouted from the centre of some of their rain swept and water drenched decks and ragged sails while ropes swung from the twisted shells of others.

Some of the wrecks bunched together and rolled over in the swell while others drifted lazily. Occasionally sections of timber would break off and splash into the foaming water. Other sections of loss drift wood were already bobbing around in the swell. They were actually driving right through a graveyard of ships. It seemed that Raleigh's sinister weather related technology was still wrecking havoc on the tortured ships and vessels.

Finally the van drew up at the grassy embankment beside the gate through the rock. The tires thudded over the rough ground and came into contact with wooden slats. A loosely slung wooden bridge spanned a small gap between their road and the isle. Held together with more fraying rope and completely rail less, it swayed in a light breeze as the van ground across it and slid onto the ledge of rock that jutted out at the edge of the grass. Murray popped the gears a second time and the van revolved on its wheels and turned so that the rear doors faced the gate. A few grunting sounds emanated from the interior before a clicking sound was heard and the doors swung open, Sly leaping out of them and landing with a quite, wet flump, on the drenched grass.

He stood up, brushed himself off and surveyed the immediate area. He heard a few more roaring sounds as Murray pulled the keys from the ignition and the van's engine went into silence. The head lights flickered off, but light still resinated from windows. Bentley's various solar, wind and other methodical powered devices saw to a continuous supply of power in case of emergencies. Sly shook his head at the diligence of his friends. Bentley always prepared for anything. Well, he thought, time to knuckle down.

"Ahoy Bentley," said Sly into his Binoc-u-com, lifting it from his satchel. "Do you read me?" He glanced sparingly back at the doors of the van as Bentley raced over to a computer panel on the wall and mounted himself on a seat by it.

He clasped a pair of head phones about his ears and twiddled a few dials. A randomly jolting red line appeared on the screen of the panel, seemingly monitoring sound waves. Murray turned around and adjusted his seat to access the other control panel. He twiddled some more knobs and the radio dish atop the cab swivelled to face the isle. The occasional electric buzzing sound interrupted the pattering silence of the rain. Like they had planned, the van had been utilised as their mobile base of operations. All was going to plan. Bentley turned in his seat and gave the thumbs up to say the equipment was working.

"I read you Sly," said Bentley, "Loud and clear," he said with more emphasis as if hinting back to Interpol the week before. "Everything is working fine here and we are ready to go. Commence operation Stealth-Approach."

"Right then," said Sly agreeably, "Time to get cracking. So, what's the plan?"

Bentley sniffed and spoke. "We don't really have a plan so much as a strategy," he said, "It is really just smash your way into Raleigh's hideout and steal the pages he possesses. Then try and escape without causing too much attention and without notice. With Murray and me on surveillance in the van, we can provide your back up though hopefully nothing will go wrong."

"Fear not Bentley," said Sly calmly, "I believe my stealth is sure to secure the job. I can be in and out of their in a trice. Just watch out for Interpol too; I believe Carmelita will soon be on our heels again."

"That's right," grunted Murray at the head of the van, "The reliable inspector is sure to show up. Even though we are in one of the most remote places I could personally think of, she is likely to eventually find us. She has been persistently on Sly's tail for years."

"Yeah, that's right Murray," said Sly, "With Carm on our tail now, we have to move quickly. In fact I better get started so as not to waste any time." Sly hoisted up his yellow belt and tightened his slightly loose eye bandana.

Bentley spluttered as he snorted into a cup of black tea he had just removed from a small stove. He coughed violently as he spoke. "What is this," said Bentley, sounding astonished, "Since when did you call Carmelita Carm? I don't recall you ever referring to Carmelita with a pet name before?" He gazed slightly curiously at Sly as he sipped his warm Devonshire tea.

"Oh yeah," said Sly reddening, "Just a cute name I thought it would be nice. Nice to have a familiar way to refer to Carmelita that is."

"Oh, that's all good then," said Bentley, quickly recovering from his scolding. He's just obsessed with her I bet, thought Bentley inside his head. Any excuse for flirting with her.

"Ah yes," Murray said lazily, "Kind of romantic don't do think Bentley? Cute that Sly has a pet name?" He gently elbowed Bentley as he said it, giving him a small wink.

"Yes, of course," said Bentley, a smile breaking over his face, "I suppose you're right. If only Carmelita knew. Okay then Sly, back to business."

"Yes Bentley," said Sly, "I've got it basically covered. To enter Raleigh's stronghold I need to enter through this gate and beyond that it should be pretty self explanatory; just a few security measures and such to look for. It should be a snap."

"Good attitude Sly," said Bentley approvingly, "That really is just about it, but as usual, just one more thing."

"Great," said Sly happily, "Shoot then Bentley."

"Okay," said Bentley, "I have diagnosed from a brief scan of the area that a series of bottles have been scattered about. I believe each is meant to contain some kind of hard clue." He brought a super imposed image up on a screen and pointed to it. The screen displayed an image of a green glass bottle with a question mark stencilled on it in gold. A single scroll of parchment could be glimpsed through the mellowed surface of the glass. It looked quite ordinary but it was an effective way to hide important documents.

"That's all very well," said Sly questioningly, "But what does that have to do with the mission? What significance are these bottles of yours?"

"As I said," conferred Bentley, "I believe they contain clues. Each clue has some kind of algorithm or code which if collected probably makes a combination to unlock something. I think it is quite likely that they could make a combination to a vault which might contain some pages of the Thievious Raccoonus. For all I know the Five may each have many of these vaults to safeguard their separate sections. I think, according to my research, that this is a standard security measure of the Fiendish Five. I'll admit that it is a little rudimentary."

"Good theory Bentley," said Sly, "I'll make sure to check that out. I'll be happy to try anything that might allow me to regain my family's legacy."  
"Yeah!" said Murray loudly, "Get back what is rightfully yours. Barge into them!"

"Thank you again Murray," said Bentley, "But violence needn't be used unless necessary. Sly will just do what he needs to do." He eyed his friend with an only slightly serious look before giving him a wink of his own.

"Ah yeah," said Murray, "Of course. A bit of decorum as you would say Bentley? Don't worry; I'll make sure to watch it." He grinned well naturedly.

"Ok guys," said Sly, "I get the idea. I had better get going. The sooner Raleigh is out for the count, the better. See you later."

"See you later Sly," said Murray, "Hope all goes well."

"So do us," said Bentley, "Good luck Sly. Remember we'll be here to provide back up."

"Thanks pals," Sly said appreciatively, "It will be handy knowing you've still got my back-again. I feel good about this one."

"Remember we are just trying to keep you alive," said Bentley reproachfully, "Safety first. Your safety in the field that is."

"Yes, safety first," answered Sly, "But remember there's no fun in the game without a bit of a risk. That's where the fun of being a thief comes in."

"You got me on that one," said Bentley, "But here's to the job. Good luck Sly." Bentley raised his cup of Devonshire tea in a form of salute and Sly briefly waved his hand before turning around towards the gate. But before he moved he whispered, almost to himself:

"Thanks a lot guys, you mean so much to me."

As he walked away and the van doors swung quietly closed he almost thought he could sense the smiles that appeared on their faces. But that was family; you were there to support each other. Every day since he had met them he had felt even more grateful for their presence. Sometimes he felt he couldn't have gotten through without them. He knew deep in himself too that he desired to be one with Carmelita. Together they were complete he thought. It was sad they were divided. But maybe that would one day not be so. He hitched a hopeful look onto his face and walked towards the gate in the rock face.

Bentley sat facing the computer panel. Again he twiddled a device and brought up Carmelita's dossier on Sly, which he had scanned into the system. With a glance towards Murray, who was snoring away fitfully, he turned back and gazed at Sly's image. He felt wistful. He, Sly and Murray all shared that past in common. All orphans, all without family and all alone in the world. He gazed sadly, but strangely blankly at the computer screen as he thought of his own long dead parents.

He had barely known them. He had only been a year or so old at the time of their deaths. Like Sly, his parents were felled by criminals. The anger and pure injustice of it brought a tear to his eye. It was not right: these villains running unchecked, tearing innocent families apart. He straightened his bowtie and adjusted his starched white-collar. One day they would pay for that he thought, and that day would be today. With the downfall of the Fiendish Five would come a little redemption for all of them!

Sly strolled through the wind and rain. Despite the rough conditions he walked straight backed and determinedly towards the little gate. As he tip-toed past the first drift wood sign he thought of something. Employing his ancestors ancient and time honoured moves of stealth he raised himself onto his toes and scuttled like a skilled ballerina, over towards the gap. He paused in front of the gate and contemplated it. It didn't look hard to break. A simple but flimsy looking iron padlock wrapped around a rusting chain was all that held the two doors in place. _A good whack should easily dislodge them_.

Easing himself up onto the eve of rock, Sly raised the golden hooked cane in his hand ready to strike. He bought it crashing down and with a jarring thud the lock shuddered and splintered into two segments. It tumbled off the gate and splashed into a clump of the wet ferns which garnered the area around the gate. Then using one of the sodden plants as a boost, Sly pushed himself further up and prodded the gate. The coiled length of chain slid off easily and clanged to the rocks below. Dusting the chains aside, Sly hoisted the rest of his body into the tunnel and ran through it.

Inside the slight dampness of the tunnel Sly could hear the muffled thundering of the rain on the outcrop outside. He ran further onwards and as he turned a corner, the end of the short passage appeared. Rain was falling like a wall over the opening and icy sheets of water were running down the rock. Around the edges of the opening were some scattered patches of dark green moss and some mottled patterns in the light gray stone. A slight smell of mildew came to Sly's nose as he came to the opening.

On this side of the passage there was no gate but a gaping hole which opened onto a sprawling, wild lawn of thick grass, which ran further down a slight slope, ending on a small sandy bank at the edge of the foaming sea. On either sides of the lawn and the opening, the cliffs stretched away behind him and disappeared into the escarpment that grew up behind him. A small assortment of rocks and boulders were scattered along the lawn and further along were some ragged palm trees, clinging determinedly to the lawn in the high wind.

Sly razed his eyes as he stepped out of the tunnel, placing his right blue boot on the damp grass first. Looking around he could see more features that stuck out of the landscape. Another clump of palm trees were dotted about on the lawn near the little beach and off to the right of the tunnel was a series of large boulders which formed a small trail of grass encrusted hills. More of the lush ferns seen at the entrance were sprouting from the area and even the occasional vine was swinging from a tree or rock. The Isle of wrath certainly deserved its name-it truly was a desolate place. But even though it seemed formidable, Raleigh had efficiently used it for his nefarious purpose.

The continued evidence to the wreckage of the villain was lying about the place. A large wooden hull of an old masted clipper ship with ragged sails, clinging to its rotted polls lay half submerged near the beach. Several old barrels, hunks of drift wood and coils of frayed rope littered the sand along with a handful of old chests. Behind the half submerged ship wreck was a chain of rocks which created a small grotto. To the right hand side of the outcrop ringing the grotto, a small waterfall flowed down into the frothing ocean. The unusually treacherous sea seemed to be responsible for washing the remains of the vessel into the grotto – a net that scooped out to catch anything valuable passing by.

Sly's eyes travelled away from the grotto and past the waterfall, further over to his right. Towards the hills covered with moss were more glass lanterns made of smelted iron and burning brightly. Each lamp was again mounted on a large wooden poll and each lit up a gravel drive to another security gate, much like the one at the entrance, complete with the Raleigh statue. The gate was smaller but was this time surrounded on either side by a jagged looking iron fence. Beyond it laid a path cleared through a patch of low-slung thorn bushes which turned towards another tunnel through the rock which curved to the left, away towards the distant stormy sea. The tunnel beyond the thorns revealed a backdrop of bedraggled trees set against an enormous lake, with more limestone stacks jutting out of the water and along the shore. Sly moved towards the gate as it seemed the way to go.

As Sly inched closer, treading quietly so as not to attract attention, he could begin to make out more features of the gate. Another metal padlock adorned the bars and it was about as large as a small melon. There was no way even the trusty Cooper cane could slice through it. Seeing as the gate was not an option, Sly inched further down the left side of the jagged fence, peering over to see what was behind. He could now see that another gate had been snugly fitted into the gap of rock beyond the thorns, which now also blocked his root. On either side of the second gate lay giant six feet high statues of Raleigh's leering face, set in windswept cobble stone. And just between the two figures sat a small red and yellow device, with four horns positioned around its top and a red dome light on its peak - Sly recognised the contraption from Interpol headquarters; clearly the Fiendish Five were optimising the same security alarms. Then Sly tweaked with a bright idea. _Perhaps if he could smash this alarm, the security gate would open - but how to get at it?_

Sly was still staring interestedly at the alarm box when a flicker of movement caught his attention. He ducked down just in time. A huge lumbering figure came into view from a small bunker positioned beside the inner gate and came to a standstill by the alarm box. It was a hulking walrus. Cleary he was meant to be some kind of security. As he leaned against the giant hat of the right statue, Sly could see he wore a black leather jacket and some tight fitting jeans. A thick brown belt hugged his waist and was strung with a series of gleaming and very sharp looking throwing stars. Beneath his jacket the walrus wore a red shirt with a gold chain around his neck and he also donned sneaker like shoes. His skull was shaved bald and his massive tusks reached to his chest. He didn't look like he was to be messed with. _Oh well_, Sly thought to himself, _I must do what I need to d. Anyway,_ he thought, _I wouldn't mind a bit_ _of a fight_. He grinned behind the fence and crouched, pondering his next move.

**This is Chapter 2 (Chapter 5 overall) of 13 in Part 2.  
Whoah, this story is getting longer than I expected - I'm on chapter 15 and Raleigh isn't even done yet!  
The way this is going I'll be writing for another year. But as long as someone likes reading it I'll be writing it.  
Hope you liked this chapter - Chapter 6 is just new and Chapter 7 will be here in about 2 - 3 weeks. Happy reading!**


	7. Chapter 6 - A Stealthy Passage

**Chapter Six: A Stealthy Passage.**

Murray glanced over at Bentley curiously. It had been half an hour since Sly had left and he was begging to feel rather nervous. Surely nothing could have happened to his friend. He shuddered as he thought of the terrible things that could happen to Sly and quickly seized a hamburger, taking a large bite to consol himself. He couldn't bear the thought of losing one his only true friends. Sly and Bentley had meant so much to him at the orphanage. He had almost always been singled out or laughed at. After his parents had died in a motoring accident, Murray had been left alone in the world; truly friendless and without comfort.

It had been a new dawn when he finally became part of the Cooper gang; Bentley and Sly appreciating him for his talents. All the good times they had had together. All the times they had come to cheer him on at the next big race. In return for his part in the gang, Murray had donated his old racing truck and turned it into the Cooper van. It still bore some marks, such as the orange flames, of Murray's old racing life. But Murray sincerely appreciated what he had given up his old life for. He had found something valuable that he had never known; friendship. He whispered quietly, so Bentley didn't hear: "Please get back safe Sly, for both our sakes." Murray wiped a tear from his eye as he sat back and waited.

Sly crouched behind the burnished metal fence and waited. The walrus didn't seem to be going anywhere. He just yawned and scratched his large nose. He leaned back and stretched his arms before he twisted back again and seized a star at his belt. Whipping it from his waist, the walrus proceeded to twirl it in his hand as it spun delicately on its sharp point. Staring lazily around, the walrus yawned and continued to twirl the star between his forefinger and thumb. Sly evaluated his options; either he could continue sitting there and wait for something to happen, or he could try something else. He opted for the second option. Staring around and down the fence he noticed some more features he had not noticed before.

At the very end of the left fence, where it met the cliff which snugly enclosed the gate, a thick based light tower rose above the grass. A rough looking pillar of limestone clay was piled up to about three metres and a wooden boarded platform lay atop it. Then there was a gigantic version of the glass lanterns on the lawn, at least two metres high but it contained a metallic looking spot light. A giant fluorescent dish rested in the in the heart of the circular device and was able to swivel across the whole area on a bolted turntable. Another tower just like it ran the other side of the fence, propped up against a large boulder. Each tower also had a burnished metal cone for a roof. Sly also noticed that another tower was mounted on a hill, just inside the thorny compound. The bunker that the walrus had come out of lay at the base of it. It looked horribly cramped and uncomfortable.

Sly noticed a ladder that had been crudely bolted to the left tower. The crooked railings lead up to the wooden platform ringing the lantern and another ladder ran down into the compound. It would be easy as pie; he was already noticing the blue sparks appearing around the ladder. Rather a large fault in security he thought. Oh well, that guard didn't look to bright anyway. Grinning at the simplicity of it all, Sly sped over towards the ladder and was about to scoot up it when he noticed a battered chest. Curiously he gave it a tap with his cane and the lid immediately fell off its hinges and thumped onto the grass. The chest contained a small assortment of some heavy golden coins which looked somewhat alike doubloons. Smiling at his luck, Sly pocketed the coins thinking that Raleigh could do with a bit of his own back.

Sly turned back towards the ladder and grasped the rungs, about to climb it when he heard a grunting noise from behind him. He whirled on the spot just in time to see another walrus, massive in stature, barrelling up the slope towards him. He gulped before he ducked aside and the walrus raced right by him and crashed headlong into a sign resting beside the tower. The sign read: All you landlubbers bow down before Raleigh, master of the seas. A tacky looking carved wooden skull was pinned to the top of the pompous message. The whole plaque shattered as the walrus crashed into it and slats of drift wood flew everywhere.

Sly had just enough time to glimpse a series of frayed ropes running between the watch towers in and out of the compound and around some palm trees before the walrus wheeled around for a second attack. Sly noted that the ropes would make an ideal escape route as he ducked the next charge. He glanced over the fence; glad that the walrus's companion hadn't noticed the scuffle. His momentary observations nearly cost him and the third attack just caught him on the shoulder and sent him reeling into a bed of ferns. Picking himself up, Sly turned to face the brute.

The rain trickled down his enormous opponent as if to accent his size, but Sly could see he was different from his colleague. This thug wore a pair of bright blue tweed overalls over a yellow plaid jacket. On his feet were outsize leather shoes with huge floppy laces. He wore a pair of thick leather gloves and donned a red cap on his shaved scalp. Like his friend, the walrus had a set of nasty looking tusks. Judging by the expensive look of the leather, Raleigh seemed to have money to burn on his security. But there was one thing that Sly hadn't seen; the walrus also swung a giant hammer above his head. It was really a massive wooden barrel impaled on a thick pole encased by iron bands. But as he bought it down, ready to squash Sly beneath it, the wily raccoon decided not to try it. He again flipped aside and the walrus brought it crashing to the grass with a thump.

"Crush raccoon, uh," roared the walrus, "I crush raccoon." Attempting at another clumsy swing, the walrus heaved the hammer above his head and made ready for another attempt. "Raccoon pancake, hah, hah, uuuhhh."

"Not today buddy," said Sly, "No raccoon pancakes are on the menu." With a sly grin on his sly face, Sly made to duck again, around behind his opponent when the next swing from the hammer tripped him up and he fell flat on his face. "Am I losing my touch?"

Sly pushed himself up and was just able to see the walrus wildly swinging the hammer and rushing at him. Jumping to his feet, Sly swung his own cane about, managing it in the most threatening way he could muster. Then, using the giant hammer as leverage he hooked his cane into the surface and soared over the walrus's head and seized a rope hanging in the leafs of a palm tree. The bewildered giant halted and clumsily turned around to see Sly waving at him mockingly, swaying from the rope. His eyes burning, the walrus charged at Sly and waved the hammer in all directions.

Just as he reached the palm tree, Sly did a graceful twirl and landed on the walrus's back. With a final swing, he swung his cane and struck the walrus in the small of the back. The walrus groaned and swayed on his feet before toppling backwards, with Sly leaping clear and flinging the hammer into the air. As he hit the ground the hammer soared out of his grip, through the sky and came down hard on the walrus's head. He gave a final grunt and his head lolled back, knocked out cold. Sly could just imagine the stars around his head. Turning his back on the prostrate figure, he ran to the ladder.

At last he was allowed to climb the ladder uninterrupted. Easily speeding along the trail of blue sparks, Sly skimmed over the wooden platform and came to a halt at the edge. He contemplated the compound which was covered in the thorny bushes as he glanced at the second walrus. He looked more intelligent than his companion; Sly couldn't see any hammer in sight. Then as if sensing his gaze, the walrus grunted and turned again towards the bunker. But instead of going inside it he simply flicked a red switch on a control panel by the door and the lanterns on each of the towers blared into life.

Turning quickly from the sudden brightness, Sly waited for something to happen. Then like a ray of moon beam, three beams of yellow light streamed from the towers and swept over the compound. Now the narrow path between the spines was bathed in light. Wondering at this, Sly saw the walrus pull a rock from his pocket and toss it into the path of the lights. Immediately a loud blaring sounded before silencing itself as a series of machine guns, concealed on the towers, obliterated it with a chatter of fire. With a growl of satisfaction at a good job done, the walrus sank back to his vigil. Great, Sly thought, security lights will make it so much easier.

Sly glared in an annoyed way at the smug walrus that was now flipping another throwing star around his head. The thug may have actually heard the scuffle with his companion and deduced to take extra precautions; either that or Raleigh had forewarned his guards. Either way his approach to the further end of the peninsula, where he suspected Raleigh was hiding out was going to be even more difficult. Then with a click of his fingers he got an idea. Sitting down by the lantern he removed his Binoc-u-com and pressed it to his eyes. Surveying the area carefully, he twiddled the radio dial and the communications screens popped up.

"Ah yes," said Bentley from the left screen, "How are you getting on?" He wore a head set about his ears and a microphone was propped in front of him. As he dialled the radio connection channel he twisted his tomato red bowtie to tighten it. He then adjusted is glasses over his beak like nose and buffed his knuckles on his creamy coloured chest shell. He swung his legs over the edge of the seat while he waited for the channel connection to clear. Finally he spun once around on his chair, flashing his dark green shell and turned to face the screen as the connection homed in.

"Oh alright Bentley," Sly said, "At least, until know. A problem has cropped up."

"What," Bentley screeched shrilly, "What's gone wrong? Did I mess up the plan? Are you alright - oh, fruit-tingles!"

"It's all right Bentley," Sly cued gently; "I'm all right. It is just a little slip up-that's all."

"Thank swamp," sighed Bentley, "I thought for a moment we'd been skewered. Well then, what's the problem?"

"Raleigh has jammed another handful of security gates throughout the island," said Sly, "Since I can't break through them I'll have to navigate carefully as I can around them. He has also got a handful of guards and even security lights with alarms. He's probably even got lasers. It's a bit of a pain but I think I can mange. The only real problem is that I've got this big guy blocking my way-throwing stars and all. I just had an encounter them."

"Ho-hum," said Bentley, "Admittedly I didn't plan for this. Oh well, I guess you know the usual drill; if you can smash those alarms, down go the lights and probably any lasers. Of course there are probably multiple alarms around the island. Then you just need to deal with the guards; with your usual agility and stealth that should be easy. As for the gates, well, they should be compromised along with the alarms."

"Okay Bentley," said Sly, "I already thought about the alarms but I guess you're right about the guards. As for the gates it's like you said; they should be compromised by the alarms. Thanks for the help Bentley-I'll call again later if I need you."

"Alright Sly," said Bentley, "I'll watch for your calls. Meanwhile remember we're here to help. Just give a tingle."

"Thanks Bentley," Sly repeated, "I appreciate your help. Well, I better go."

"Oh and Sly," whispered Bentley, "Just remember not to cause too much mayhem. You don't want Raleigh to root us out before it's necessary. And remember the blue auras-you can probably climb most of the pipes and ropes around here. Also I believe Raleigh is using a treasure key system common across the Fiendish Five security. If you see any of those it is probably wise to collect them-they could help you avoid obstacles. Good luck!"

"Cheers pal," said Sly, "See you later."

He switched off the radio channel and the device dimmed. Quickly he slotted it back into his satchel and kneeled down, ready to sprint. Time for action, he thought.

The walrus guard was still standing below in the compound, completely oblivious to the conversation that had just gone on. He was about to get a surprise. Silently Sly skimmed across the platform and poised on the edge of the ladder railing. Gently pointing his toes he hopped lightly down the rungs, allowing his stream-lined physique to guide him once again. With a slightly wet but quiet flump he landed on a patch of grass concealed by the thorns. Slowly and carefully he edged around the bushes and peered down the path, towards the gate and through the search lights. He noticed a pattern that seemed to emerge; they seemed to sweep in arcs around the area and at certain times, just for a few seconds, they left gaps just big enough to slip through.

If he could manage that without being seen it could all go smoothly. He inched forwards and pushed himself upwards. He was now at the edge of the field of light. On the opposite side the walrus hadn't noticed him because he was leaning back and yawning stupidly. It was his best chance.

Like a spear of lightening Sly pounced and soared towards a gap in the lights. He narrowly skimmed by the first beam and just missed toppling into a second as he managed to stay balanced on his toes. Then as another gap opened he dived for it and rolled into the bare patch as the one behind him closed. But just as he was about to bounce through the final gap for a surprising blow to the guard, he tripped on a stone and fell to the ground, right in the path of a third light. Instantly the siren blared and the alarm box began to wail loudly as the walrus whipped around.

Catching sight of Sly he grinned dimly and grabbed all the throwing stars from his belt. Sly only had a few seconds to take this in before he twirled out of the light beam and dodged a chatter of gun fire. His heart racing, Sly turned. The hulking brute was wielding the deadly disks and bearing down upon him. Behind him the alarm continued to blare with a resounding screech. _Big mistake_, Sly thought, _the whole island will know I'm here soon!_

The walrus was now standing over Sly, leering down at him as he made ready to hurl one of the discs right into his back: oh, no you don't, thought Sly. He launched himself at the brute and over his head, past him and towards the alarm box. The walrus also whirled stupidly around and flung three discs over his shoulders at Sly. Sly turned and the discs pinged of the alarm box, sending orange sparks flying. Enraged, the walrus quickly launched more discs and they pinged of the cliffs and a statue, creating more sparks as Sly danced around his head. Finally the walrus completely lost his cool and ran at the raccoon while hurling about ten discs at once.

Unfortunately this mistake cost him. Sly easily ducked under the oncoming blades and leapt forwards at the temporarily distracted walrus. By the time he released what was happening, it was too late. Down came the cane on his head and he keeled over, unconscious and dazed, by the alarm. Meanwhile the alarm still was belting out the siren call and Sly, having had enough of the infernal device, gave it a whack also and it sparked and immediately crumpled amid a shower of flame. Then with a small pop of electricity the siren wailed to a halt, the lights flickered off and the compound was silent. Turing from the prone figure behind him and the wreckage of the alarm, Sly heard the creak as the gate swung open. It was rather a security floor. Without wasting time he darted through the gap in the rock and to the path beyond.

The rain was still barrelling down as hard on the other side of the stone arch. Sly now had a totally different view of the isle. The area where he now stood was far more windswept and barren. He was perched a descent height above the massive fresh water lake he had seen from the gate. The only thing that was stopping him plunging into its dark surface was a narrow ledge of loose dirt, stone and gravel which formed a thin path clinging desperately to the cliff and twisting to his left into the stormy sky. A rise formed a hump which rose just high enough that he could not see what lay further along the path.

Here only a few shrubs and ferns grew and the occasional lantern flared. Even though the rain was heavy it was not hard to see far. In fact Sly could discern the grove of ragged trees on the far side of the lake. Below the cliff top trees was a thin waterfall that trickled slowly into a series of thundering cascades which eventually met the surface of the lake. Unlike the sea just beyond the cliff line, the lake's surface was unusually calm. But that was not the only strange feature of the lake; a hulking dark shape could be glimpsed in the distance. It swayed and rocked on the surface of the lake but remained in one place. Sly could see more wrecks scattered about the huge wooden shape, but they were much smaller. Then as he inched over for a closer look he could make out what it was; a huge wooden hulled ship rose from the lake.

Startled and amazed by the gargantuan apparition, Sly lightly ran closely over the loose layer of sand that created the cliff top path. He could now get a clearer view. It was not an ordinary vessel. It was far bigger than any normal vessel in size and was at least as twice as large as a container ship. It was also composed of wooden planks, metals and stone. Several towers and turrets as well as a scattering of small buildings dotted the deck and were scattered haphazardly around the place while some even clung to the sides of the hull. Some of the buildings bore signs of being well weathered, such as moss and climbing vines while others seemed newer and as if they were just added to the massive jigsaw.

It seemed as if it was a massive floating headquarters, constantly changed and fitted for whatever needs. Sly suspected that it was also were Raleigh was happily ensconced, due to the grave yard of ships that were scattered about it. It was rather ironic that Raleigh would create a headquarters to look like a giant ship, except that his ship didn't move. Lastly, as well as some rather noticeable gashes in the timber hull, supposedly caused by the rough weather, and also seemingly in repair, a bloated blimp like craft floated above the whole lopsided construction.

It was the most metallic object on the giant barge and seemed to float just above the highest wooden tower. A large yellow dome glowed brightly on the face of it and tubes and other piping spouted from the sides, belching steam. A large weather vane, which looked something like a fin, jutted out from the rear of the craft. Then as if to make it more crazy looking, a tremendous spout rise from the peak of it which was shooting a torrent of steamy looking gas into the sky. It looked almost like vaporised water. The device actually seemed to resemble a giant whale. Then with dawning realisation, Sly realised what it must be; the spout spitting the gas out of the blimp must be an outlet for some kind of storm machine. The gas certainly seemed to be causing a heavy downpour in the ejection area. It would reveal Raleigh's sinister technology and why it never stopped raining on the Isle of Wrath.

Below the airship, several more port holes and windows scattered about the place glowed alight with the same yellow light. Vaguely Sly could even see some figures moving about on the multilayered deck. If this truly was the heart of Raleigh's operation, then it would be well guarded. He certainly seemed prepared for anything. Some tremendous cannon adorned the left flank of the ship and several more turrets were mounted here and there, like a futuristic pirate galleon. Raleigh also seemed to have been clever with the currents around the lake. The tides of the sea must have been thought to run straight into the lake and would, as such bringing all the wrecked ships into the bay as well, making them easy to plunder as well as hiding them from eyes on the coast.

Not only did the mastermind have a menagerie of weapons and sinister, weather making machines in the palm of his hand, but a reliable source of wealth. He supposed that the storm machine and the weather were responsible for the wrecked ships and how Raleigh had a continual supply of wealth. Well if he had anything to do with it then the machine wouldn't be running much longer. He was determined to restore the seas to their original state and ensure Raleigh was never again a hidden menace to sailors. Looking again with remorse at the wrecked ships, Sly turned determinedly, with the one thought in his head and raced towards the rise, making for the path to the boat.

Sly crested the hill that ran parallel to the distant fortress and without further ado, raced down the other side. Bobbing along in his vision he could see the boat coming closer, but as he twisted around it became slightly obscured by a series of boulders and rocks which clung to the gradually widening path. The piercing yellow lights of the port holes gleamed through the rain. Sly took his eyes away from the boat and fixed his attention on the path. It bobbed slightly again and then widened out to a breadth of about four metres with some grass, pebbles and a few ragged ferns dotted about.

More burnished iron fences appeared along the path and more drift wood signs grew up from the path like trees, but Sly didn't stop to read them. He was concentrating on the task ahead. As he passed another lantern blazing on the edge of the cliff side of the path, Sly could see that the drop had lessened to only a few metres and the calmer waters of the lake could be glanced, slowly frothing and swishing. Dark green weeds could be seen pulsing just below the crystalline surface and polished stones rested on the sandy bed. Even below that Sly could glimpse the faintest gleam of gold, silver and bronze. Gold coins, silver encrusted goblets and bronze plates encrusted the bed of the lake, supposedly from the shattered chests aboard the ships; Raleigh's ill-gotten wealth.  
His gaze was only wrenched away from the alluring lake bed treasures when his foot came into contact with a hard, metal object.

A shot of searing pain pulsed up his toe and he turned back to the side of the path to see what had caused the pain. Flumping down onto the grass as he cradled his bruised foot, Sly saw a small metal cone, about a metre high and secured with fat bolts. A stem sprouted from the ground and held up the cone which had a clear dome inserted into the pinnacle. The dome reflected the light from a nearby lantern and it revealed a small blue button just below the dome. Seeing no other controls on the device and curious to see what the device did, for it did not look like a security mechanism of Raleigh's, Sly prodded the button with a finger. Immediately the device gave out a whispering bleep and a few clicks sounded.

Then a final whirring sound occurred and a blue apparition composed of blue light rays bloomed from the dome. It appeared to be a holographic like image and floated in the air just above the device on an array of light. It formed Bentley's face and then his body appeared, creating a miniature image.

"Good job Sly," said the hologram of Bentley, "You have discovered my first check-point node."

The image flickered and wavered as Sly stared at it questioningly.

"Using my remote control helicopters I have placed several of these nodes throughout the island. Whenever you see one of these devices throughout Raleigh's hide out you can activate it as you have just done and my hologram will appear. In each node I have programmed what information I could gather from my remote-control-helicopter camera surveillance-hopefully this will assist you. Each node also contains certain locations of collectables, bottles and keys I have noted stashed in Raleigh's compound. I am sure the keys will be needed to eventually access the storm machine."

Bentley's hologram disappeared and a surveillance image of the blimp like storm machine appeared. Bentley's voice still issued from a speaker in the base of the device.

"Yes Sly, it is a storm machine," said Bentley's disembodied voice as Sly raised his eye brows at the confirmation. "That infernal device is why it never stops raining around here. Oh and by the way, I suspect that is where Raleigh is hiding out. We'll eventually have to put the storm machine out of commission to get at him. And be careful - my scanners indicate large pulses of electricity pulsing from the blimp; there will probably have to be a power source to destroy. Good luck then pal, and remember that you can use these nodes to help retrace your steps. I have placed them where the guards are shore not to notice them. We are also at the ready to personally assist you, if necessary - over and out."

The hologram flickered again and disappeared into the node. Then another ray of blue light bloomed up again and the familiar caricature of the raccoon's head blossomed into being. It slowly began to rotate on the spot, creating a marker that lit the path through the sheets of rain. It was clear that Bentley had meant it to be seen from a great distance. Appreciating his friend's resourcefulness, Sly stepped back, gave the device a final glance and sped further along the sandy path.

Sly ran for some way before anything else interesting occurred. Just a few metres after he had left the shining beacon device, he saw a flare of flame momentarily appear around a bend in the path. Making sure to remain soundless he scurried forwards and peered over the rise to see where the plume had come from. His heart sank a few paces. Another stocky walrus guard stood over the hill, near the edge of the crumbling path. Like the one with the great hammer, this walrus bore overalls, a yellow shirt, great floppy laced shoes and a red cap upon his shaved head.

But unlike his fellow the walrus had in his hand a slightly rusted blow torch with a hose winding back from its end to a gas drum placed by a burnished iron fence. Another lantern lit up the walrus's work, which apparently was mending some kind of rusted patch on the burnished fence. The flame had come from the torch held in his hand and every now and then, between when the walrus grabbed a wrench or spanner from a nearby tool box, it emitted another burst of fire over the metallic surface. The light bounced of the wet surface of the ferns and rocks, cutting through the night towards the distant boat. Keeping his eyes trained on the walrus, Sly began to edge forward, hoping to remain unnoticed.

From the pinnacle of the rain drenched outcrop, Sly scrambled silently down the slope and made to inch past the walrus's back. Now he was closer he could see that he also wore a leather helmet over his cap, fastened with metal buckles and with a thick pair of welding goggles stitched to the brim. With the goggles down, the walrus resembled a giant fly. But while he was preoccupied on the welding job on the fence, he did not notice the raccoon. Crossing the fingers of his left hand behind his back for luck, Sly now faced the difficult task of inching between the narrow gap of the walrus's back and the moist cliff. Clutching the polished shaft of his cane with a sweaty hand, Sly began to move between the gaps.

But just as he was about to hop from between the gap and onwards onto the path, the walrus sat up and scratched his nose. Unfortunately the action meant that he caught a glimpse of Sly from the corner of his eye. With a flare of surprise on his ruddy face, the walrus, with torch in hand, swung around and flung himself at the raccoon. Sly clumsily ducked aside and dodged the swinging blows the walrus aimed with the torch and he smacked into the rock. The angered brute lumbered back to his feet and turned to Sly as he danced along the fence line.

This time he wrenched his torch upwards and gave it such a tug that the hose snapped and a trail of gray gas fumed from the broken cord. Ignoring the hissing gas, the walrus whipped the torch handle at Sly and twirled around dizzily as Sly ducked again. With a final grunt of rage, the walrus lifted the torch to his lips and gave a tremendous puff. A searing tongue of flame shot from the torch handle and singed Sly's whiskers as he toppled back towards the ground.  
Letting an alarmed yell escape his mouth, Sly rolled out of the way as the walrus swung down the torch and let out another burst of fire.

His great bushy tail flowed behind him as he turned and fled onwards down the path. Even though it dented his pride, Sly knew that it was sometimes more sensible to run and live to fight another day. That was another of Bentley's lessons. He heard the walrus bellow loudly and thunder after him, giving chase. Sly barrelled frantically along the path and the vessel in the background continually bobbed in and out of view as he puffed along. Taking another turn in the path he looked up to see two towering waterfalls pouring down the cliffs and then tumbling over the path. The icy cold torrent rushed forth over what had been a cobblestone path and then swept over the edge to meet the diamond like surface of the great lake.

Someone had nailed a crudely placed and crooked wooden board walk into the stones that stood amidst the water. In some places even this had been smashed into shards by the raging current and boulders had scattered themselves between the gaps, like so many stepping stones. Sly readied himself for the perilous plunge as he and his pursuer raced onwards.

The walrus had gained some ground during the later part of the pursuit and now flung his torch just metres from Sly's back. With a wild swipe the torch caught a single strap of Sly's back pack and it was torn asunder, swinging from his shoulders. Sly swiftly seized the errant strap and looped it back over his shoulder as he caught the few papers that fluttered from it. But as he leapt onto the rickety board walk, Carmelita's file slipped from the bag and soared over Sly's snatching fingers, before coming to rest on the opposite bank. Keeping his mind fixed on recovering the file, Sly danced over a series if boulders that interrupted the path and covered a second expanse of board walk. The walrus clumsily pursued Sly and as he tripped over a boulder, splashing into the cold water, he lashed out with the torch and hooked Sly at the ankle. Sly gave a grunt of pain and thumped hard onto the rough bed of the falls, with the water roaring about his ears. Unhooking the torch from his ankle, Sly flipped upwards and turned to face the walrus.

He also rose from the water and glared at Sly. His bulk dripping, the walrus launched his whole body at Sly and swung a punch at his chest, catching him on the arm and flinging him onto the final stretch of board walk. Painfully Sly crawled along the chipped wood and dragged his body onto the bank. But he barely gained a single breath before he felt himself being yanked into the air and swung a foot above the ground. He twirled like a rag doll and found himself staring into the ugly mug of the walrus. He leered horribly at having caught the raccoon and raised the torch to his lips again, about to finish Sly.

Then sudden realisation gushed into Sly's head and he remembered he still held the trusty Cooper cane. With a sarcastic smile on his face he gave his wrist a sudden jerk and thwacked the walrus full in the face. The walrus gave a gulp of shock and groaned, relinquishing Sly and letting him fall to the ground. Sly seized the fallen file and shoved it into his pack as he darted out of the way and the walrus toppled face first onto the ground, tossing aside the torch, with a thunderous thump. Wasting no more time, Sly rushed away from the fallen guard before he could come to and ran down another hill, making for a distant, burnished metal gate embedded in the rock. There had already been enough distractions.

Bentley and Murray dozed lazily in the cosy interior of the Cooper van. It had been only forty minutes since Sly's exit but it felt like longer. Both knew what the other was thinking. They were both worried about Sly. Neither of them dared to think of what might happen if Sly were caught. They couldn't imagine a life in the Cooper gang without him. It would be like living in an incomplete family; somehow strange and odd. Neither of them wanted to lose that either. Both treasured the family the three of them had created amidst injustice and quelled at the thought of the one thing they clung onto being torn away from them. Bentley with his parents killed in an attack by criminals, much like Sly and Murray with his parents gone in a car crash.

Their lives snuffed out in but an instant. This journey they had undertaken meant something for all of them. Redemption and triumph over the unjust and malicious forces that had torn their lives apart. It was symbolic of the even brighter future they might someday have. But it was a long and winding road along the path of destiny, and many steps lay before them until they reached that time. Together, as a team, they would complete that journey.

Bentley had never really known about the origins of his family. He had had barely any space in which to enjoy his comfortable life before his nemeses had swept it away. He still remembered the terrible face of the man who had killed his parents. Bentley only retained a few scraps of information about the man but he clung onto them - one day he would catch up with him. He had remembered his name had been Brendan Stringer, nefarious crime lord of an association known only as Vortex. There had seemed no reasoning for the malicious man's attack. All Bentley had ever learned was that it had had something to do with a strange invention his father had once worked on. Stringer had been determined to seize it. The only thing Bentley remembered about the device was this; his father had called it The Spearhead._  
_  
Carmelita surveyed her surrounds again, swinging her head from side to side, scanning the drenched promontory. Her party stood atop the narrow strip of rock on which the gravel road led to the isle. The small convoy of vehicles idled by, waiting for her command. Giving a final glance to her commanding officer she snapped out a few lines of rapid French and strode to the head of the group. Two of the vehicles broke away and turned back towards the mainland, while two more trundled on towards the island to scout ahead. Tipping her hat to the driver, Carmelita sprung into the passenger side of the remaining vehicle and murmured a final sentence to herself, this time in her native tongue of Spanish:

"I'm still coming Sly - I haven't forgotten you." She sniffed and fell silent.

Agent Reptile stood alone in the rain. His radio remained in his breast pocket. Parting the drenched ferns he trod his way gently over the sodden earth. Rounding a boulder he saw a faint light and heard a distant whirring sound. It sounded like a generator of some sort. He adjusted the glasses he wore and rubbed his balding scalp - he had started balding at an earlier age. It appeared that his son was following, already without his hair. The sheets of rain revealed the van to him, the van he had seen back outside Paris.

The Cooper gang was here and Sly Cooper himself was already gone. He was too late to stop them. The plan would have to be changed. But it was probably for the best. He had distanced himself from his son for a reason: he deserved the chance to prove himself as his father's son. He deserved a life without the treachery and danger his father had caused. The invention he had created. Agent Reptile turned the radio on at last.

"Destination – Wales," replied his contact, "Apprehend the Cooper gang?"

"No, it is too late for that," said Agent Reptile, "The plan has been changed."

"Change of plan confirmed," said the contact, "What is your action now?"

"I must wait and see," said Agent Reptile, "This is probably for the best."

"Agreed," the contact replied calmly, "Proceed as necessary."

"I will," Agent Retile said shortly, "I must ensure their safety from my mistakes."

The radio died. He crouched behind the boulder and waited. He must bide his time. There would be a moment when he should reveal himself, but now was not it. Too much was at stake for him to fail.

**This is Chapter 3 (Chapter 6 overall) of Part 2 of 13.  
At this point I will start to introduce a few familiar characters from the other games, as well as some new faces too.  
You can expect Chapter 7 in about two weeks or eighteen days. Don't worry, all will be revealed when the story is concluded!  
I hope this chapter made for an okay read - I'm still practising with my novel writing. Happy reading!**


	8. Chapter 7 - Clues to the Key

**Chapter Seven: Clues to the Key.**

**Versailles, France: 7:45 PM.**

**Note: Sorry this took a bit of time to update, but here it is. Chapter Eight will appear a lot faster - in the next week. Enjoy reading this!**

The old badger coughed. He stifled a sniff with a faded handkerchief and brushed some grime from his greying moustache. Raising a fat, brown cigar to his mouth and giving it a large puff, he sent several billowing smoke rings into the air. He hacked again, a little harder this time and sneezed loudly, accidently dropping his cigar into the waste paper basket. Rubbing his nose he adjusted his thick belt around his plump stomach and brushed a hand through his brown hair. He rapped his knuckles on the desk, jangling a pair of handcuffs at his waist, staring at his office door, as if waiting for something.

After a few more seconds he lifted his feet onto the desk and casually spun his chair from side to side. Then a swift rapping sounded from the other side of door, though the badger could not see who it was as the blind was down. Quickly he sat up again and grunted a reply to enter. As the door opened, the light from the corridor outside lit up the dim office and it shone off a plaque resting on the badger's desk which read; Inspector Barkley - Chief of Interpol. It showed the loving polish it received every evening.

Inspector Barkley trained his eyes on the man who entered. He motioned for the officer, clad in a navy blue uniform and cap, to sit in the chair before his desk. A Labrador sat in the chair and nervously met the gaze of his superior. Sergeant Higgins had always been a rather shy man. Even though it had been a difficult quality in his training, Barkley had believed it was a valuable quality in an officer; nobody would ever suspect him. He raised his left eyebrow to prompt Higgins into speech, but he remained silent, fidgeting nervously. Feeling the session was getting nowhere fast; Inspector Barkley coughed again and spoke in a rasping voice, with a hoarse undertone.

"Good day to you Higgins," he said, "Please, what would you like to tell me? With the Cooper case and the Fiendish Five on my hands at the moment, I'm rather busy. I also still have to watch my trainee, Miss Fox, while on the field."

"Ah, ah yes sir," stammered Higgins, "Funnily enough I actually have news on both counts. Miss Fox confided with me before she left. She also has sent some current news on her pursuit of Sly Cooper."

"Very good, very good," Inspector Barkley muttered satisfactorily, "I am glad to hear it. I hope the news is positive? I have had some doubts about Carmelita's enthusiasm and obsession with Sly Cooper, but she is reliable. I hope she comes out of this mess okay. I have trained her at my best."

"I assure you," said Higgins, "Very touching sir. Yes, the news is relatively positive. Apparently she has finally obtained the trail of Cooper once again. She is now somewhere along the south coast of Wales with a select group of officers. She believes Cooper is also tracking the Fiendish Five for his own reasons and, if we are lucky, we might even be able to make some extra arrests."

"Wales, eh," said Barkley, "Interesting, interesting - that must mean Cooper is after Sir Raleigh - the mad man has been a headache in those parts for years. According to British intelligence that was his last known position. On some blasted chunk of rock known as the Isle of Wrath. It would be a triumph to finally have him behind bars."

"Oh indeed it would," Higgins replied, getting into the swing of things. "I would personally like to see them all behind bars. After the death of my father, while on service at the hands of some villain, I detest any such fiends. I guess there is motivation there for both Cooper and Miss Fox I suppose."

"Yes," replied the Inspector, "I would surmise that to be correct. But even though we ourselves, and probably Carmelita also sympathise with Cooper, we must put him behind bars. He and his gang after all are still thieves. We can still be more sympathetic I think though compared with the five. In fact I have their dossier in my desk. Wait just a minute."

Inspector Barkley leant over and tugged open the third draw down in his desk, which was stuffed with many papers. Rifling through the many folders he halted and seized a file from the far end of the draw. Then he sat back in his chair and displayed the file to Higgins. Quickly he flipped through the contents and extracted several papers. Placing the file back down on the desk, he spread the papers over his desk organiser. Higgins leant over, slightly curiously and eyed the documents. Barkley snatched one up and began to read some of the text aloud.

"Ah-ha" crowed Barkley, "As I thought. Cooper and both of his two friends, Bentley the turtle and Murray the hippo, were born right here in Paris. All of their parents deceased and all sent to live in an orphanage at the age of five. I also believe Mr Bentley here has some association with the infamous leader of the criminal mind Vortex, known as Brendan Stringer. Yes, I think we are dealing with an unusual pack of thieves."

Barkley was unaware that this was not all true. At least the parts about the orphanage and Sly's friends – but he would find that out later from a certain old bird.

"Quite so sir," said Sergeant Higgins, "This is quite one of the most unusual cases we have had. Also, if you don't mind me saying so sir, I think Miss Fox has formed some kind of almost romantic connection with Cooper. We must make sure that does not hinder anything."

"Really?" questioned Barkley, "Of all my years of training her, I never would have suspected. I may be almost sixty years now, old and shrewd, but I would not have thought it. Still, I know her well enough to think that she would not dessert Interpol. She is very much devoted to her job. I guess such devotion deserves a reward. I have been tossing up whether to promote her."

"A worthy decision that would be," said Higgins, a slightly smitten look coming across his face. "She really is something else. She is the only one I have ever seen who could handle a shock pistol that way."

"Now, now Higgins," teased the Inspector, "Am I to guess you have feelings for her to? This is becoming rather complicated wouldn't you say?"

"Oh no sir, I mean yes sir," stammered Higgins, "I mean that Miss Fox does not have feelings for me. I am only interested in the case and her prowess of course!"

"Alright," said Barkley, "Calm down-I was only teasing. Of course I know you to be devoted to your work. In fact now that we have had a decent discussion on the subject, I have a mission for you."

"Thankyou sir," said Higgins, "I am honoured. What do you wish to assign?"

"Just a simple order really," said Barkley, "Carmelita has probably already filled you in somewhat. I need you and your inspection team to assist Miss Fox on this mission. Judging by the way this case is coming I would say that back up is necessary to make sure none of these fiendish thugs slip through our fingers. As soon as is necessary, I would suggest you make tracks for Wales. Interpol has never failed yet and we must capture Cooper. Good luck Higgins - you have my thoughts going with the both of you."

"Thank you very much Inspector Barkley," said Higgins gratefully. "I promise you my team and I shall be onto it right away. Carmelita will not be victim to anything those thugs might do if I can help it, so long for now sir."

Higgins finally sat up and raised himself onto his feet. He stood still for a moment before turning to the door and swinging it open. He stepped outwards and strode down the corridor: letting the door swung shut behind him, it gently thudding into the wooden door frame. Inspector Barkley sat back and thought to himself. Cooper was after the Fiendish Five – for whatever reason – and now they were too.

"What an interesting case this shall be," Barkley said to himself, "Maybe Higgins does feel for Miss Fox. Either way this shall turn out to be one of Interpol's biggest triumphs. The eventual capture of Sly Cooper and the Fiendish Five! Carmelita really shall deserve her promotion she has been wanting. I really must think of giving it to her."

Inspector Barkley sat back on his chair, again placing his leather shoes atop the desk, and a vague smile of satisfaction crossed his face. Feeling like another cigar he looked around for his lighter and scratched his head. The box must have been put back in his drawer. He was just about to check his top most draw, where he usually kept them, when he jumped back suddenly and swore loudly. The cigar he had dropped into the waste paper basket earlier had just set the papers alight. It was one of those days.

**The Isle of Wrath, Wales: 8:56 PM.  
**  
Carmelita sat and waited in the passenger seat of the van. The driver beside her was tense and hugging the wheel, attempting to manoeuvre the van safely across the dangerously narrow promontory. Two of the vehicles had already reached the gap in the rising cliff which loomed ahead of them. The wind and rain was relentlessly battering the exterior of the vehicle and hindered the convoy's progress. Carmelita could only just now make out an end to the narrow road and a steel gate beyond it, seemingly hanging open as if blasted apart.

She wondered at how the Cooper gang had ever managed to make their way past this point. It was truly treacherous. Still, they must succeed for the good of many innocent people. She had also promised Inspector Barkley she would succeed. She was determined to keep that promise: for Barkley and Higgins - for whom she had always nursed a soft spot. She wanted to complete her training and make them proud. It was time to prove herself and her skills. She would do whatever it took to halt the treachery of the villains ahead of her. She thought determinedly of her parents and smiled. She was also sure Sly still lay somewhere in her future, waiting for her too. It was time to go where her instincts took her.

#

Higgins pushed his cap back over his head, as it had slipped down his forehead and with a sigh, stared across the landscape ahead of him. Only a few minutes after the briefing at the covert Interpol headquarters in Versailles he had assembled his inspection team and in a matter of hours made for the English coast across the channel. He now stood at port in London, the night lights and noises of the streets surrounding him. His small team of officers were gathered behind him, ready for orders and assembling the vehicles and equipment they had shipped.

He was ready to begin his mission. In just another couple of hours they could be in Wales and set about scouring the coast. The sooner they could meet up with Inspector Fox's team, the better. He was keen to see her. His life had not been very prosperous or exciting since the death of his parents. He had been forced to live at the most meagre standards and could never have afforded anything he really wanted. It was a miserable prospect. He thought to himself how the world always seemed to be cruel and unkind. It was simply full of more sadness and maliciousness - sometimes more so than good.

Sly Cooper was proof of that fact. Even when malevolence was conquered, more would take its place. Obstacles were always placed in one's path; the death of his own parents and of many others. The villains that pursued them and the objects they desired. Such devices like the mysterious Spearhead associated with the original family of the McShellsons and sought after by the Vortex. The blood line from which came Bentley the turtle and which had staggered Interpol for years. The torment of the world made Higgins feel sad at the misery it caused. But maybe one day that misery would be deafened.

That was his motive for joining Interpol. Higgins had a feeling that Cooper was a symbol of hope, even though a thief himself, who bought at least a ray of light to the world. He hitched a smile to his face and sniffed heavily. There was work to be done and he had a mission to complete. Hopefully at the end of it all, the world would be that much happier.

#

Murray and Bentley tensed slightly as they watched the monitor read out mounted on the computer panel. After an hour or so of just sitting around in a rather bored fashion, and with no apparent distress from Sly, they had both been started into a state of consciousness again when several bleeps had issued from the computer. Quickly shaking out of their reverie and eyeing the screen closely they could see that a bunch of little red dots were making their way slowly towards their position, inching across the map of the island. At a word from Murray, Bentley had twiddled a knob and a satellite image of the spot had been drawn up.

Using the radar dish to scan even closer inwards they had observed a small trail of what looked like Interpol vehicles edging their way along the promontory and towards the isle. Both looked very tense and stared nervously at each other, worried that Carmelita had regained the trail so soon. It looked as though the pair of them might have more than Raleigh's thugs to deal with at some point. Bentley in particular was nervous that their mission might be thwarted and all of them captured long before they could complete their common goal; that of gaining redemption for the wrongs done to them before they had met at the orphanage. They all dearly wanted some day have a better life without the shadow of their enemies lurking just behind them. It looked like it might not be as easy as they had all hoped.

#

Sly had finally come up against yet another obstacle - another substantial obstacle; he sighed in frustration and amusement; you could never be without them he thought. Yet another of Raleigh's infernal security gates stood before him and it looked even more impenetrable than the last three. Looking around the area sharply as he strolled down the mossy hill and up towards the burnished gate, he looked for any of the blue sparks. It seemed like another ideal opportunity to optimise the beginnings of the thieving skills he one day hoped to learn from the completed Thievious Raccoonus. Much to his disappointment however, no blue sparks appeared anywhere in the vicinity. But as he stared aimlessly around, his eyes caught something that hung about two feet above his head, suspended from a metal bean that ran between the two cliffs supporting the gate.

It was a twisted wooden hook, painted a faded yellow and obviously once meant for supporting a lantern. Glancing down at the cane he clutched, an idea clicked into place. He should have realised that his father would want him to discover some of his own potential by himself; it was what made the Coopers unique. Considering his prowess and dexterity in agility, he would be able to use the cane to swing from the hook and across, even over the gate. The point of carrying the cane for each member of the noble line was to hone his or her own skills to add to their unique abilities. To focus and bring out their personal traits and emphasise the qualities they possessed. It made sense as to why the Coopers had altered the fabled tool over the many centuries. It was time for Sly to begin his own menagerie of skills.

Sly tensed his body and made ready for the leap, keeping his eyes trained at the tip of the hook and just over the gate. He twisted his fingers and fists, including the grip he now held on the cane. He slowly inched backwards and crouched, ready to launch himself like a rocket. He felt his spine retract backwards, thinking of himself like a giant spring. Then with a final flick of his head and twitch from his foot, he let the pressure burst from beneath him.

It felt amazing. His body suddenly flowed with a power and speed he never knew he had possessed. He thought that was why the Coopers honed their skills-so as to bring out the best in their abilities. Like a bolt of lightning he streaked down the slope once again and leapt from the ground, sailing in an arc towards the hook. He swung out his cane with a flash of yellow and blue and it snagged the hook perfectly in the crook of the point. Up arched his thin, blue clad body and with his tail whipping behind him he made a perfect half circle and soared away from the hook and over the gate.

With the wind whipping around him in cold blasts he felt his toes skim the burnished metal and he was over. In a final flip and twist in mid-air he landed softly and precisely on the grass, completely steady and about two metres from the other side of the gate. Standing up and looking around he marvelled at the feet he had just performed. He had astounded himself at what he was capable. It had felt terrific. Making a mental note to use the trick again when he could, Sly turned, smiling to himself, and pattered across the grass and further along the winding path.

The sanded trail took another twisting turn beyond a weathered outcrop of mossy boulders and arched around to eventually open onto a low slung pathway. The scattering of rocks and craggy stones melted away into the rain and now a wide expanse of hard earth made the path that cleared the way to the banks of the lake and Raleigh's boat. The cleared area of the path was now almost entirely taken over by a moist coat of vibrantly green grass.

More lanterns mounted on wooden stakes sprouted like strange plants from the grass, spreading their light yonder. Towards the left side of the path a crumbling lip melted into a shallow pool of crystal clear sea water, with many small brooks, tributaries and eddies running into it. A shallow basin was formed from more moss covered stone, encasing the water from the distant sea. The path rose and fell in earthen humps by it and the occasional stone sat just below the surface. Even though it was only about a metre deep and the bottom could easily be seen, Sly kept his distance, keeping to the center area of the path where the mud would not slip him up. Funnily enough he had never learned to swim, even though he was a master thief, and as such he was rather uncomfortable when it came to deep or treacherous waters. He made another mental note top learn the basic strokes. He would probably get more lectures from Bentley for water safety.

The other side of the path garnered a rather different view. Like the left side it gently sloped away and downwards but to a further extent so that the pool was deeper and the rocks there more jagged. The outcrop of earthen stone was also slightly higher, raised further upwards towards the sky, which just concealed Raleigh's hide out beyond it. The upper side of the storm machine, glowing through the night, could just be seen. Sly turned his eyes again and became determinedly fixed on actually reaching and destroying the monstrosity. As he sped along, another handful of iron fences rolled along the banks and hemmed in the ferns and palm trees that grew in clumps, fighting against the violent winds. But now a new phenomenon was occurring.

A low hanging white steam floated about the path. But it was not natural steam-that which was made of evaporated water-but artificially created steam issuing from the bowels of Raleigh's fortress. The steam ran from rusted metal pipes and cisterns, of darkened copper, that erupted like tremendous tree trunks from the ground. Several huge bolts and pressure wheels adorned the twisted surface of the pipes and served to make the random devices look only more obscene. Clearly the pressure being pumped through the cisterns was great. With the unusual patterns in which they ran by the path they seemed to make a path all the way along the isle. To Sly it looked as if they served to transport a source of power or energy for use in the inner workings of the criminal mind. Who knew what infernal machine needed the power to operate its sinister purposes. The pipes might deserve some attention later on-wards.

When Sly came to a hulking culmination of more twisted pipes and cisterns, he halted by the clump of tortured metal and leant against it, breathing heavily at his resent labours, chest rising slowly up and down in a gentle rhythm. As he took the break, he observed the path which stretched forth again and in a distance of about three hundred metres or so, disappeared into a final crevice in the rock. This presumably emptied itself onto the banks of the lake and provided an entry way to the fortress beyond. He gave a happy sigh of relief at knowing he was nearly there. Perhaps next time, depending on the time in which it came, it would be easier. Maybe Bentley could even persuade Murray to take the van. It would be far more comfortable. At least there might not be all the dampness of the rain and the bedraggled plants.

Choosing to give his friends a brief assurance of his safety and current success, Sly flicked back the latch of his satchel and retrieved his Binoc-u-com. With the familiar mechanism he scanned the area, raising the view screen to his eyes. Using the focusing device mounted on the computer chips he twirled a dial and the screen flickered and scanned inwards. He could clearly see what lay before the gap in the rocks. The low slung earthen path, lined with the occasional lantern or fence, traipsed onwards but rose up slightly at about six feet around the clear pool to about a hundred metres from the crevice. The expanse of ground was actually spread in very tight security. Sly had been unable to see it through the sheets of driving rain. Perhaps that was deliberate.

About fifty metres of the path were surrounded on all sides by a single burnished iron fence which ran on the edge by the pool. A series of separately spaced lanterns also ran along the fence and helped to light the compound. It seemed a final obstacle had been placed on the path before the fortress could be reached. No less than six light towers rose on their concrete stacks about the path, three on either side and each sweeping a blazing trail of light in great arcs. Each also had a machine firing like mechanism attached to the tapering roof. Sly also supposed that each tower could this time boost laser security, being so close to the heart of the operation. More ropes were strung between the towers, bridging the gaps over the path six metres below.

Pipes, cisterns and gauges also sprouted about the towers along with a few brave clumps of low slung plants. Even the occasional sea side daisy rose from the withered lawn, parched by the light of the spot lights. At the far end another gate blocked the ten metre expanse to the crevice, beyond which no more security appeared, as any interruptions would probably be snared in the spot lights. Anyway, Sly had failed to notice three other obstacles.

Half concealed by the shadow of the wooden decks encircling the towers, another alarm box sat bolted into the ground, just before the far gate. Again it would be linked to the circuitry of the lights and lasers, and again, inconveniently, it was right behind a wall of security. Again Sly would have to trust his luck to get through. The bright red of the dome gleamed, as if taunting his quandary. But as if destroying the device was not enough, another and even burlier walrus stood silently in the middle of the compound. He was alone but boosted a whole array of throwing discs and stars, each of their deadly teeth gleaming. He was in the same ilk as the first walrus.

He stood in a patch not surveyed by the lights and was perfectly positioned to see or thwart any attack-for he would only have to launch a disc and not even take a step. That was a pain. Sly particularly hated those walruses. Finally, just before the compound, a channel had been dug into the ground and created a moat, running with the clear water of the pool and filled with five tremendous waterwheels. The series of giant cogs were tethered to pipes and cables which seemed to generate a form of hydro power. But besides their further use in powering machinery they also created another barrier. Each wheel was lined with a deadly set of iron spikes, slowly dipping in and out of the waters as they revolved.

Even though the placement seemed absurd it was also clever and almost economical. It helped block the path and served a practical use. Still, if Sly had his way it wouldn't stay that way. He sharpened the reception on the radio channel and the familiar visual screens popped up. Bentley's face appeared on the left, along with his own on the right screen.

"Another difficulty Sly – is your position compromised?" Bentley asked questioningly. "Perhaps we should be quick about it. My recent surveillance has just observed that Interpol and Carmelita are already here and not far from our position. You should aim to move quickly. When they get here I am not sure how long we can hold them away."

"Not to worry," said Sly, "There is no real problem, though I am startled to hear that Interpol are so close. Just try and do the best you can - I will be as quick as is possible. With luck we can be away within a few hours. I'm sure with your gadgets and brains; along with Murray's strength you can hold them off that long. I'm behind you Bentley."

"Thanks, thanks," Bentley tittered nervously, "We could use support. And don't worry about us, we'll do our best. We must capture those pages and if possible, put the storm machine out of action before things get to difficult. If only they could see it, in a way we are helping the law by only robbing these villains."

"Yes, I agree," said Sly, "But you know how black and white Carmelita can be on the subject. Anyway, that is not my main point of discussion. I am calling mainly to talk about more security I have come up against. Some nasty looking water wheels, another walrus guard security lights and possibly lasers as well as a final gate. Will it ever end?"

"As for that then," said Bentley, "With your prowess, it should be relatively simple. Your thieving skills should easily allow you to get by as last time. Also remember those clue bottles. I am sure they now contain clues that might lead to pages of the Thievious Raccoonus, which from you could learn even more skills. That would be very valuable against the five, for the skills are unique."

"Yes they are," agreed Sly, "And I will be honoured to finally learn them. But for know I must rely on my own prowess. And by the way Bentley, I have just discovered a new skill I possessed."

"Really?" asked Bentley curiously, "What would that be? I was only aware of the phenomenon with the blue sparks."

"Yes, so was I," said Sly, "But I was delighted by the fact I could find it for myself. I found that using the cane I could swing past and over gaps, even more nimble than usual. I used that technique just now to avoid another security gate."

"Most intriguing," said Bentley, "I am genuinely interested at that fact. I suppose that was a step of your path that your father liked you to discover-not to be told. You should use that potential Sly. It sounds like it could be very handy."

"So I thought," said Sly, "It was extremely useful and easier. I might be able to use it here. You are right Bentley-this is no different and should be a snap. Thanks pal - could you perhaps put Murray on for a quick word?"

"Certainly," Bentley said and his image blurred and disappeared. A series of cracklings and whirring noises issued forth for a handful of seconds. Then Murray's face appeared, pink and porky, but lined with concern.

"Cheers Sly," guffawed Murray, giving out a nervous laugh. "How goes the rat race?"

"Fine, fine," said Sly as he giggled to himself. "As I said to Bentley, only the usual minor obstacles and I am also watching out for any potential loot. Also I have had to come up against the occasional guard or two. But it's all right really."

"Splendid," said Murray, "I have been dying her in the van; I long to punch a few skulls. By Bentley's leave we can only operate surveillance work and keep your back on the field. We won't leave this spot until you need us." He punctuated the final sentence with a tone of defiance and determination.

"I knew how you feel pal," said Sly, "But remember Bentley is just looking out for all of us. Perhaps later on you will get your chance. After all I would find it far more difficult to get by without your invaluable backup."

"Nice of you to say so," said Murray, "I appreciate your words. Pardon me a moment. Sorry Bentley, what did you say?" His voice trailed away and for a moment or two all Sly could here was mumblings and a few grunting sounds from Murray. Staring expectantly at Murray's behind poking into the screen, Sly waited, humming tunelessly to himself. At last Murray straightened up and turned back to face him.

"Just before I go," said Murray, "Bentley has asked me to give you a quick briefing."

"Sure thing - shoot," Sly replied.

"Okay," grunted Murray. "Bentley has told me that he has devised a method to make this mission quicker and easier to cope with. Using remote control helicopters placed about the island he can project luminescent flares, green normally, on places you should hit. From his scanning he has deduced they contain valuables or other useful items. These hot spots may also lead you to the inner workings of Raleigh's machine. With this information we hope to cut the energy travelling to the storm machine, thus thwarting the constant storms in the Welsh triangle and returning the seas to their original state. That is the plan in a nutshell."

"Good," said Sly, "Thanks again Murray and tell Bentley thanks too. I'll file that away. Good luck with your surveillance."

"Goodbye then Sly," said Murray sadly, "And remember to watch for the green flares. And one more thing - get back safely, Sly." Murray gave him a small wave and sniffed.

"Don't trouble your conscience," assured Sly, "I am endeavouring to do just that. I will we back before you know it. Thanks for the concern."

"Okay then," muttered Murray, "Signing out Sly." He let a watery smile lighten his good natured face before the channel dimmed and faded out.

Sly turned off his own channel reception and brought the device down from his eyes. Again he placed it in the back pack and tightened the latch. Ensuring everything was secure and the damaged strap tightened, he breathed in deeply and started to make for the final stretch of the path ahead.

Sly thought to himself as he moved along the extent of the path. He was sure his friends would be able to cope. Murray's strength was more than a match for most opponents and Bentley nursed a secret talent. He only ever mentioned it to Sly. Somehow he didn't think Murray would take it the same way, which relied on brute strength. Bentley was a master fencer and swordsmen. While they had gone to school in Paris, funded by the orphanage, they had each taken the same classes but Bentley had had a special liking he had kept to himself.

He had always appreciated the blade and how it departed from modern combat obsessed with guns and explosives, despite his liking of gadget like weaponry. He had taken fencing lessons and become a school champion. Another unusual thing about him was that he had used his left hand. The school had never before had a left hander student master the blade the way Bentley had. Sly knew he was secretly proud of it.

Then there was Murray. Strength and muscle rolled into his powerhouse of a body. Never really interested in the classes on English, Mathematics and other subjects-even though the school had been where they all learned English for they could all speak fluent French as well-Murray had focused on his talents in boxing and wrestling. All though rotund and slightly plump, Murray was also a formidable opponent. He could down just about any enemy with his tremendous strength. He was also a loyal friend to the end. He would easily pull through along with Bentley.

Sly knew that Murray was also driven on by his past like both of his friends. It had not been just a car crash that had killed his parents but another malicious attack. Like Murray himself, his parents had always been expert racers on the track and traversed the world far and wide, a famous driving duo, making millions and becoming famous. Driving more and more expensive and elite vehicles they had won more and more titles, constantly beating their opponents. But one day that had had a dire consequence.

On their way to a grand final held as part of the world famous Grand Prix car race, they had been intercepted. They never even got to the race. Murray had been in the back seat of the car at the time, and that was probably what saved him. His father and mother had both been in the front seats. One moment they had been driving along pleasantly and the next they had been rammed from the left flank. Another vehicle probably organised as sabotage by a rival racing team had swerved out of the lane and smashed into their vehicle. Murray had never seen who had driven the vehicle or what the team had been.

The vehicle disappeared into the traffic as soon as it had appeared. But the damage was done. The engine severely damaged and leaking, with steam hissing from under the bonnet, the car had skidded across the lanes and crashed heavily into the side of the road. His father had been unable to control the perilous trajectory and had been instantly knocked cold, along with his mother, by the shock. Murray lay whimpering in the back seat as the van finally teetered and feel onto its side. Rolling out of the smashed windows Murray had attempted to run back to his parents but it was too late. Clear of the wreckage, the vehicle had exploded in an enormous fire ball. Remains erupted into the air, completely obliterating it - and everything within. A bomb placed inside; an act of vengeance by another unknown assailant.

Either way, Murray had been tragically orphaned and somehow wound up in the orphanage in Paris. He only ever had a single battered suitcase and one of his parents' racing vans, left to him in his will. That was the van Murray had eventually transformed into the Cooper team van, in homage to his parents. Murray had subsequently tried to regain his parent's fame on the race track, but it had never been the same. Sly knew the blow had hit him very hard. He also knew that it would never quite leave him and there would always be some pain. It was a sad truth.

Sly gave another melancholy sigh and attempted to pull himself together; as Bentley would say - no use crying over spilt milk. It was sad, but that was the way it had been made. After all, if those events had never occurred, the three of them would never have met or be here now. Sly would never have met Carmelita. He probably would have ended up as a mere orphan boy and never even come close to reassembling his family's ancient book. Sometimes sad events turned out for the better at the very end. Maybe this was one of those times. Either way, Sly knew he should appreciate the happenings that had followed and where he was now.

Really, after the orphanage, things had been relatively good. They had made the best out of what had been previously shattered lives. Maybe even Carmelita had somehow been drawn into it all. Together they all seemed to be part of a greater journey. The more Sly thought about it, the more he thought he never knew about her. Maybe someday in the future he would penetrate that mystery. He had partially lied to himself that he did not desire to share in the life of the inspector. Hopefully he thought that somewhere not far away, their paths were intertwined. With hopeful spring in his step, he sped up, soon reaching the compound.

Teetering at the edge of the moat which was choked by the water wheels, Sly glanced across the way to fully assess the situation. It was rather tricky. The tight security posed a significant danger, which meant he would have to navigate each hazard individually.

Not only that, he would have to destroy the alarm system as well so as not to alert the whole island. His last slip up in the first compound had nearly cost him and for all he knew, Raleigh knew he was here, plotting every move against him. He had to take the next step, the last step before penetrating the heart of the operation, very carefully. He would not allow the fiends to better his family a second time! He had also noted a final factor.

Several of the clue bottles Bentley had shown him littered the lawn and, behind the gate, beyond a second trench, lay a final compound. Three more churning water wheels guarded a small ledge of rock which jutted out into the pool. The crevice towards the lake shore yawned behind it. A copper frame sat in the centre of the small ledge and suspended within it, in a glowing laser field, was a single key. It was one treasure key Bentley had mentioned; but how to retrieve it?

**This is Chapter 7 - Chapter 4 of 13 in Part 2.  
****I took some creative liberty and added some plot points - like introducing Barkley and revealing that Bentley can fence, left-handed.  
****This may seem absurd but I thought it would be fun to make Bentley more able in combat, like Sly and Murray:  
This will be used at least twice later on in the story.  
****Look out for Chapter 12 in about a week (it was pre-written). As always, I hope you liked reading my story!**


	9. Chapter 8 - Running the Gauntlet

**Chapter Eight: Running the Gauntlet.**

**Note: This chapter is at least two-thousand words longer than previous additions. All chapters will now be as long or longer.**

Murray shifted his plump physique restlessly over the faded leather interior of the van. There really hadn't been that much to do over the course of the last hour. From the last radio communication Sly had sent in with his Binoc-u-com, Murray had gathered that they may not be needed at all in the field. And at any moment Interpol might be on top of them. It was a fine balance they had to keep. To make sure they could hold off Carmelita long enough for Sly to retrieve the pages they had come for. A little bored of relieving all this in his mind over and over again, Murray turned back to the monitor screen, which Bentley was keeping an eye on while folding and throwing paper planes over his desk. Every now and then one of his eyes would casually flitter towards it. Deciding on a closer examination, Murray rolled his chair over to the control panel and again twirled the focusing dial.

The helicopter camera image blared up and again revealed all the vehicles. Murray could see Carmelita standing by one of the vans. She appeared to be talking to an officer, clad in a navy blue uniform and cap. He looked like a Labrador. Murray could also see that more trucks had squeezed their way onto the peninsula. Reinforcements he supposed. From the officers who were running around the vehicles, opening doors and removing equipment, it appeared as if a search party was being organised. All this was only a kilometre away from them. Giving a sudden jump of realisation, Murray quickly waved Bentley over to take a look. The pair eyed the screen, now very much alert.

#

Higgins stared warily towards the treacherous isle that extended into the churning froth of the Welsh sea. The promontory on which he now stood wound its way towards a tremendous canyon in the rocks, where the charred sections of an enormous metal gate rested. It appeared as if someone had already forced entry onto the island. And Higgins knew just who it was - Sly Cooper. His gang were probably already somewhere within the heart of the island, one step ahead of his team. But they would be close behind.

The promontory extending out from the barren coast line was the only way in or out; Cooper could not escape. Anyway, the whole isle only extended to a width of two kilometres and a length of about five. There was virtually nowhere to hide. The squad of officers could cover the place in a matter of hours. Once his team was organised, he would lead the boys on a raid into the hideout and flush out the criminal mastermind. He was determined to make good of himself on his first, large-scale field job. Besides, the sooner they could leave the dreaded chunk of rock, the better.

Higgins was so lost in his contemplation that he was startled into conniptions when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Whirling round on the spot he turned to see Inspector Fox standing expectantly behind him. Blushing red in the face and feeling butterflies in his stomach, Higgins yanked hard on his collar and coughed. A slightly amused smile twisted Carmelita's pretty face and Higgins's heart went out to her at once, the sound of love ringing in his ears. However, he quickly pulled himself together.

"Oh please excuse me Inspector," Higgins rasped apologetically, "I was dosing off and I was just startled. Sorry to surprise you. My team and I are ready to go. It was easy taking all our supplies from London by road to this point. We now have prepared all the necessary equipment. I was determined to assist you in this latest endeavour." Another wave of warmth swept over him as he finished and his cheeks blushed red again.

"Oh please don't apologise Higgins," said Carmelita, "I did rather surprise you. Oh, and do please excuse me if I made you feel awkward in any way." She glanced rather pointedly at him and let out a girlish giggle. This made Higgins blush even more.

"No, no, not at all," said Higgins, "I'm not feeling awkward; it's just that it is so humid around here. Anyway, I am anxious to get along with the mi-mission." Stumbling over his words, Higgins last sentence escaped in a sort of stutter. Then as if to explain his behaviour he quickly fanned his moustache with a handkerchief.

"Of course, of course," Carmelita replied knowingly, "I understand completely. And I appreciate your assertiveness in assisting me. I shall see to it that Inspector Barkley gives you recognition for this."

"Oh – really," Higgins mumbled the word in what he thought was a bumbling, stupid way. "Very kind of you I'm sure - but it really isn't necessary. I'm just glad to be out on the field and helping you trail Cooper." Fearing that Carmelita would detect his covert comments, Higgins's voice began to rise to a higher and higher pitch until it was almost unheard. He sweated a little and grinned sheepishly.

"You're too kind Higgins," said Carmelita, "I really am rather touched by your loyalty. I am sure together we can lead this to be a successful mission. Inspector Barkley shall not be disappointed."

"Indeed, he shall not," Higgins said shrilly, bringing his fist down in conviction. "This mission shall be successful. I'll go and get the boys ready to go shall I?"

"Yes," said Carmelita, "We shall get started immediately. Form our search party Higgins and get our men together. I would like a group together in the next half hour. Let's get going." She gave a form of salute to Higgins and whisked the cap she wore off her head. Tossing it onto the seat of the nearest van, she slipped her shock pistol from its holster and gave it a quick once over before slotting it back in. Satisfied with it, she made to join the convoy of officers but turned at the last minute.

"Any last minute enquires?" Higgins queried, "I think we should push on now. This weather seems to be getting worse and worse. It isn't natural. Someone is out to stop us. I bought all this equipment along so our mission can succeed. It must not fail for the good of thousands of people. The final arrest of Cooper could rest on its success." He spoke beseechingly, but rather hopefully because he did want to spend more time talking to Carmelita. Even though he liked spending time with her, he never called her by name - he was too embarrassed.

"No Higgins," said Carmelita, "I do not have anything to enquire, but thank you again for your attentiveness. It is the kind of attitude we need here. I just merely had a question I would like to ask you before we head into the fray. I expect the next couple of hours shall be rather difficult and Sir Raleigh will be the one out to stop us."

"Oh," Higgins murmured in surprise, "What would that be?"

"Just a silly question really," she said," I just wanted ask whether you have ever had any feelings for anyone in Interpol, say perhaps me?" Her demeanour was businesslike but she had a loving curiosity in her eyes. Higgins's blood ran cold. Could she possibly know about his feelings towards her?

"Yes, I mean no, not at all," Higgins stuttered desperately, "I have never had, ah, feelings. I assure you I have only feelings to you and any others as partners or comrades. I have never had any feelings of affection." He breathed a slight sigh of relief as she seemed to believe his words. Maybe he was safe.

"I thought so Higgins," said Carmelita, "I was just curious. Please excuse me if I have embarrassed or abashed you. And you are right; time for the expedition to begin." She gave him a glowing smile and he melted instantly.

Even though she gave out a sweet feeling Higgins sensed that she had a polite curiosity and didn't perhaps quite believe him. Not in a sceptical, but rather affectionate way. Could it be? Could she possibly have any feelings for him to? But no, he was sure the Inspector gave most of her feeling towards Cooper. There was more going on there than she thought he knew. He decided not to get his hopes up-the world wasn't that kind of place. He gave a resigned sigh and made to reply.

"Thankyou Madame," Higgins said, "Yes, I would be delighted to begin. Let's go and get the boys and get going. I shall be with you all the way!"

"Thank you as well Higgins," said Carmelita, "I would also be delighted to begin. It shall be an enriching experience working with you. I am looking forward to it. We shall go and get the team." She waved him over to join her and together they walked to the head of the group. Strolling at her side, Higgins felt himself practically floating on air and unable to take his eyes off of her. This would indeed be an enriching first mission. He barely noticed the other officers congregating behind them in rows before they set off and began to march off the promontory and through the gate.

About a minute later, Higgins had finally managed to tear his eyes away from Carmelita and turn to the path ahead. The walls of stone rose like towering pillars and cast shadows over the party. Sand and wet grass coated the driveway and thick mud, congealed under their feet, yielded tire tracks that wound away ahead of them. Clearly Cooper had gone this way. Thunder broke in the skies above them and the rain pounded down harder than ever. Luckily the officers he had handpicked were tough and persistent-they would be prepared to slog their way through any obstacle. Be foot it looked as if they had a hard march ahead of them. Higgins bowed his head against the wind and rain and fought onwards, Carmelita doing the same at his side.

As Higgins marched, his mind wandered and he found himself recalling memories from his past. With the non-descript howling of the wind and rain around him, he let his mind take over. A vision opened up and blossomed in his mind. He was a child, living in a posh London home with his two parents. Higgins had grown up and spent most of his childhood in England. His parents had worked for the royal police force at Scotland Yard and were almost always on duty-they had been well respected. When he had been born they had been absolutely delighted, loving him the moment they saw him.

His father had been doubly proud that he might someday join his profession and nobly serve queen and country. He had had a proper English name. His full name was actually Winston Nicholas Higgins, but everyone at Interpol called him just plain Higgins. He preferred to remain more anonymous under his last name, even though Higgins didn't sound French. But he had changed his first name to become Gustav. He had thought it appropriate when he had moved to France, learnt the language off be heart and joined Interpol. He had dearly wanted to fulfil his father's only wish of him.

When Higgins had only been at the tender age of thirteen, his parents had been out on another big assignment. There had been a big robbery at the bank of London and his parents had been some of the first on the scene, quickly rushing to assist Scotland Yard. They had arrived to find the faced completely blown open and destroyed, papers falling everywhere. The glass lay in glittering shards and the door was shredded and hanging off its hinges. The interior had been violently ransacked and every single teller or banker was tied up and gagged. On further investigation, the vault had been blown open and several sacks of pound notes and coins had disappeared. More shreds of paper fluttered in the air. But there had been no sign of the mysterious assailant.

Higgins had been home at the time, listening to the radio report by the news channel with baited breath. Apparently there was no trace of the thief at all. But as they turned away from the vault, a great hulking brute with enormous pistols descended upon them and knocked them to the ground. At the same time, two more hulking figures and a smaller weedy one, burst from underneath the sacks in the vault and thundered past them, knocking the officers down and piling into a van that had pulled up in the street. Before anything could be done, they had disappeared, the van screeching around a corner and disappearing past the patrols. Two weeks later it was found abandoned on the M1 motorway. Ten years later Higgins had realised they were the Fiendish Five.

His parents were trapped beneath some of the wreckage after the flight of the criminals. The brute with the pistols had mown down several desks and one of the other hulking figures had launched a missile like explosive into a wall, causing an explosion which rocked the building and rained plaster, wooden beams and debris on top of them and the rest of the officers. Trapped beneath the rubble, his parents had been powerless to escape when the final fiend revealed himself: a shadowy silhouette moving as fast as lightening. He swept across the room, with what seemed like enormous wings and several sacks clutched beneath it and soared for the exit. His father had just managed to free his upper body and swung his pistol around to fire.

But the bullets had just reflected off the shadow and ricocheted around the room. Then as if irritated, the shadow had swooped around and, dropping the sacks, flown straight for his father.

It was needless and violent as well as heartless-his father or his mother needn't have died - just because they were there. Standing unafraid and uttering last words of defiance, his father had been cut down by a single talon like claw. He fell like a rag doll and lay cold upon the floor. His mother had fallen the same way. Then the shadow had disappeared, soaring away, not to be seen again for many years. That villain was now known to Higgins as Clockwerk. The name stood for malevolence. He had cut down innocent people just for defying him. Higgins shivered in anger and thought how unjust it was that villains like that continued to thrive. If he could help it, that would not remain so.

Devastated, Higgins had been sent to live with his aunt in southern England, not far from where he now stood. Only his most prized possessions went with him. Despite the bleak conditions he had still endeavoured to fulfil his parent's wish. Deciding to strip himself of the sad memorise he had immigrated to France and joined Interpol, one of the most famous law organisations in the world. There he had made a small name for himself and had received a promotion from Inspector Barkley. He had continued from the age of eighteen to represent what he considered well and just in the world. He wished to represent light and hope. The violent passing of his parents was what had been his motive for the job he now fulfilled.

He, suspecting like Carmelita, had used the events of his past to motivate himself and further his skills. It also made him feel better about himself and the world, something good in an otherwise bleary existence. That was why he treasured the company of Carmelita so much. It was one of the few things he could enjoy. He also suspected that Cooper had such hidden motives and together, all three of them were on a path to a better life. They all strived to do well in the world against injustice. But could it all turn out well and without consequence? Something dark loomed on the horizon and he felt it. He just hoped it would turn out happily. With that he returned to his concentration and returned his eyes on the march ahead. The rest of the convoy marched onwards into the night.

#

Nearly on the other side of the island, Sly Cooper stood thinking to himself. Only moments ago he had been lamenting on the loss and terrible pain of the shattering of his entire family. He could only imagine how many other victims there must be to the sinister wrath of Clockwerk. But his family had been hit the hardest. They had not only been killed, but completely wiped out. The malevolence of the villain had somehow driven him to shatter what mattered most to Sly and destroy his old life. And all just for still unknown and probably selfish motives, such hate must have fuelled those decisions. And all the others, all the other victims who he had maimed and destroyed: all for the good of what?

Sly knew in what he was about to do next was not just for his own benefit, not even just for Bentley and Murray, but for all the victims of Clockwerk and indeed the whole world. He intended to avenge everyone who had ever been touched by the malicious creature or anyone attached to his purposes. He would liberate everyone ever put under the shadow and make sure it never returned. He was now that avenger and he intended to fulfil his purpose. For everything true and just. He set his gaze on the path before him.

The walrus standing right at the centre of the field seemed absolutely unconcerned. Apparently supremely confident that the lights and other security would keep intruders out, he was not even bothering to keep his throwing stares handy. Instead, leaving them at his waist, he just stared in a bored kind of way back along the path on which Sly had come. Judging from the slightly puffy and red appearance of his eyes, he was rather bored and tired and had probably not noticed Sly during his approach. Unlike his comrade back in the first compound he needn't be so alert, as he would not be the first line of defence. But he was still perfectly positioned to create a perfect hazard. He was still keen and tough looking after all. Sly thought he would try and take him out before he tried any attempt on the alarm which might prove a failure. He judged the walrus to be about thirty metres away from him. Soon he too would be out for the count. Well here comes the crunch thought Sly.

He raised himself onto his toes and spun forwards, balancing neatly on the edge of the moat. His feet just centimetres away from the first waterwheel, he launched his body into the air. He came down softly on the wooden surface of the wheel and, jogging slowly to keep pace with the churning rhythm, he back flipped a second time and landed cat-like on the next one-so far, so good. For his next jump he simply did a kind of skipping hop and came down on a single foot. Unfortunately the cedar wood, unexpectedly slippery and rusted from dipping into the ocean waters, proved to damp to make much friction and he found his whole body twisting backwards before he lost his footing all together and tumbled head-over-heels towards the churning swell.

Luckily he swung the cane about and hooked an iron spike sprouting from the edge of one wheel and thanks to his physical dexterity; he turned right way up and clung to the wet surface. But as the wheel began to sink into the water he shot upwards, unhooking the cane, and slid onto the fourth wheel, narrowly escaping being crushed under the weight of the wheel. Finally he hooked his cane into the wood of the fifth wheel and, yanking forwards, he shot across the surface like a bullet from a gun and jumped lightly up to step purposely onto the shingle on the other side. One obstacle down, three to go.

Hovering on the brink of the compound, Sly suddenly turned and with a kind of cartwheel, he rolled behind one of the large bulks of copper piping that lay to his left, resting at the foot of one of the sixth light towers. Now safely concealed from the gaze of his nemeses, who apparently still had noticed nothing; Sly took in the angles of the situation. Like the first series of lights, these lights arched around in patterns which allowed the occasional gap, small enough for him to slip through. With the same ease of his thieving skills, and without tripping up this time-much to his embarrassment-he could pounce upon the alarm box and fuse it with another good whack. The gate would have opened and it would have been simple as that. But there were still the bottles stashed in the corners of the field to think about. And the walrus put a big blot on his plan. He decided again to take him out first.

Readying his limbs and flexing his muscles, Sly coiled his lean body to make another jump. Only his bushy tail swishing behind him gave any idea that he was not a statue. Making sure he still retained a tight grasp on the shaft of the Cooper cane, he shot forwards and literally flew into the path of the first spot light. He had timed his move so that he would land on a blank patch of lawn while another light would conceal him from the walrus. The momentary flash would temporarily distract him. Then the light from which he had jumped swung around and sliced through the patch of field, but he was already away, propelling himself into another patch.

This time he came down rather harder and he pushed himself up from the ground, brushing grime from his tunic. He just had enough time to observe a clue bottle, emblazoned with the question mark, lying innocently on the grass before he ducked from the path of another light and snatched it up. Tucking the bottle into his belt he readied himself again for the jump which would launch him straight at the walrus as he had planned. Take him out by surprise before he even noticed. He jumped.

But to his surprise the walrus's shaved head suddenly shot round almost ninety degrees and froze Sly in his gaze. Deciding not to waste time explaining, Sly let himself plummet towards the face of the guard, letting his cane lead him forwards. But the walrus was more on the ball than he thought and he used a vicious upper-cut of his right arm to parry the blow and send Sly falling to the dirt. For the fourth time that night a hideous face leered down at Sly. But he had had enough of being tossed about like a rag doll and sprang up instantly for another attempt only to be met with a punch to the face from an enormous fist.  
Feeling his nose give a sickening crunch, Sly toppled backwards and into the path of a spotlight. The walrus must have seen him all along.

He had decided to lull him into a false sense of security; payback time. Clutching his bruised but unbroken nose Sly felt warm blood trickle between his fingers but couldn't worry about it too much for suddenly the alarm box let out the blaring call of warning. The siren echoed around the compound and about two kilometres away, Sergeant Higgins and Carmelita heard the ringing noise. Dismissing the sound they marched on. But Sly couldn't do the same as the light surrounding him had just turned red and a swarm of lasers were surging towards him from the roofs of the towers. Relinquishing his crushed nose, Sly leapt out of the light again as a laser narrowly missed singeing his tail.

Blinking back the speckles of blood that had splattered his visage, Sly threw his whole body weight upon the walrus, this time with far more force. But again the brute parried the blow and tossed Sly over his shoulder. Feeling nausea somewhat set in, Sly felt himself soar like a pinwheel through the air, cutting into several spotlights and finally landing with a horrible thud at the opposite end of the compound. At least now he was beyond on the lights and the lasers which he had just avoided. But he still had a problem. A storm of red rays and lasers surged along the lawn and through them burst the walrus, triumph in his piggy eyes. Oh not again groaned Sly in his mind, and he flung his cane forwards, making for a third blow.

This time, sailing through the air, the walrus was unable to parry the attack and he launched himself right into the way of the cane. As an idea sprung into Sly's mind he saw the walrus desperately scrabble for his throwing discs. But before he could reach them Sly hooked the cane around his collar and tossed him around in turn, sending his body crashing down upon the alarm box. Throwing stars flew every which way as the weight of the walrus completely flattened the alarm, immediately silencing it. Then with a feeble spark of electricity, the circuits shorted out and the lights shimmered and disappeared. The lasers immediately stopped tracking their way across the lawn and fizzled out.

The compound fell silent as before and there was no movement except for Sly's swishing tail. The only other living thing nearby was the unconscious walrus who lay atop the flattened alarm. He groaned and lolled back. It hadn't been quite the entry either of them expected.

Sly grinned as he heard the now familiar click of the gate swinging open once again. He glanced behind him and noticed that the way now lay clear to the small ledge of rock sitting above the lake and by the crevice. The burnished gate had come to rest against a large block of what looked like iron beside the gate. Only a small grassy lip was left for him to step onto before the water wheels. The key now sat also in plain sight. He could investigate those later. He still had a task to do. He turned back towards the larger compound.

Without the lights and lasers to conceal them, every single clue bottle in sight could be clearly seen. Most were just scattered about the lawn while others had been lodged into crevices within piping or balanced on the tower balconies. Sly judged there to be about twenty-nine of them all together. Plainly Raleigh had meant to make the task of collecting them far more rigorous. Now he could just run around, collecting them at his leisure. Deciding he may as well get on with it, Sly sprinted back across the far end of the lawn and snatched up a clue bottle that had been resting within a clump of laurel bushes. Then he ran about collecting more bottles that rested in places like cracks under the piping, patches of grass on the lawn or behind rocks and boulders.

Soon he had about twenty-three bottles and his belt was bulging with the strain of holding so many articles. And there were still some to collect in the towers. Running back to the gate Sly dumped his load of clues in a pile by the iron block and looked curiously around for a way up to the towers. A glint of blue caught his eyes and he turned to see a frayed rope trailing up the side of a limestone pillar. The sparkling blue trail of light ran along the rope until it met the balcony above. His instincts had not let him down again. He seized the rope in his blue gloves and shot up it, using the palms of his hands to push himself onto the wooden balcony above.

As soon as his eyes rose to the level of the wood he saw a clue bottle sitting right in front of his nose. The golden question mark was so close to his eyes that it made him feel quite giddy. He grabbed the bottle and tossed it down to the grass, where it landed with a soft flump by the other pile of bottles. Twisting his head round to pear along the sides of the lantern, Sly could see that no other bottles rested there. But he could see a single bottle resting on the balconies ringing the other towers. And as he had observed earlier, more ropes were slung between the towers to allow him passage. They also boosted the blue sparks. Using his cane, Sly worked his way onto the roof of the beacon light and tugged his body upright. He could see from quite a distance all around him.

The lagoon like lake stretched for several hundred metres away and more ridges of rock, some adorned with moss and tumbling waterfalls, erupted from the landscape. He could even glimpse the occasional twisted mast or torn hull of a sailing ship. Then away in the distance he could see faint lights flickering from just beyond the promontory. He supposed that was Carmelita and Interpol on their way here. He quickly sped up and turned his mind back to the job.  
Over the next few minutes Sly had gathered the five remaining bottles and tossed them into a heap by the iron block beyond the gate. Each bottle contained a delicate twist of parchment tied with velvet ribbon. It was a rather unusual way to record information but he supposed Raleigh had a taste for Victorian grandeur. He leapt down from the final tower and sprinted back across the lawn, accidentally crushing a few seaside daisies under his feet and just dodging round the dozing figure of the walrus. He gently raised a single bottle from the pile to his eyes and stared through its opaque surface.

But the green glass was too embossed in a glaze to thick to see any of the writing. So he grasped the chunk of cork choking the neck of the bottle and pulled it forth with a pop. The cork shot through his fingers and landed with a plop in a nearby puddle. Ignoring the cork, Sly tipped the bottles upside down and the parchment slid into his hand. But he could hardly make head or tail of it. It was covered in what appeared to be some kind of complicated lettered and numbered code inscription algorithm. All the bottles he opened were the same. Time again to get out the good old Binoc-u-com and ask Bentley's advice thought Sly.

Sly was just about to activate the Binoc-u-com when he noticed a shimmer of silver reflect off of the iron block. This intrigued him and he decided to go for a closer inspection. Placing the device on top of the slab he lent down and examined the surface. The box was about a metre in length as well as height. It had a width of about fifty centimetres and it tapered from an inverted triangular base at the bottom to a rectangular shape at the top. All sides of the box where secured with thick metal screws and bolts. The object looked somewhat familiar. Then he noticed that a smaller iron slat seemed to be fixed to the face with screws. That didn't seem right. The slat revealed a thin seam all around its edge, from which the glimmer had appeared.

Sly placed his cane down upon the grass and, fixing his blue gloved fingers into the seam, he gave it a reasonably hard tug. The iron gave a small clank and with another clicking sound it slid off the block and into Sly's hands. Surprised, Sly staggered backwards and fell onto the grass. The bump reminded him painfully of his damaged nose and he tossed the slat aside to see what he had uncovered. He should have known it. He had seen something exactly like it back at Interpol headquarters and it had been mentioned in Bentley's briefing of the bottles. Concealed at the end of the compound was a combination vault.  
Ecstatic at his discovery, Sly swiped the Binoc-u-com off of the vault and ran back to the pile of bottles.

He grabbed handfuls of parchment scrolls until he had them all and staggered back to the vault with his arms full. Again he dumped his load down by the door of the vault and rifled through them. Now he looked closer at them he could see that they appeared to detail an ordered, but complicated numeric code. It had to be the combination to the vault and he was sure Raleigh had stashed pages of the Thievious Raccoonus insides it. Barely able to contain him, Sly fumbled for the radio dial and the screens flickered on. But as he saw Bentley's face shimmer onto the lenses, he dropped the device from his trembling hands and into the grass. As he heard Bentley's voice squawk alarmingly from the strange angle, Sly snatched it up and pressed it to his eyes. This device is a thief's best friend thought Sly.

"Mercy me," bellowed Bentley, "What happened to your nose? And what's with all that blood? Now you said that we wouldn't have any trouble. And I've got news; Interpol are only about three-hundred metres out from our position. It could be quite a fight so you'd better hurry it along. I don't know how often I'll be able to communicate with you now."

"Bang on the nose," said Murray from somewhere behind Bentley.

"Oh, my nose," Sly said sheepishly, "Well it's not actually that bad. It was just a little slip up in the plans-that's all. It turns out one of the walrus guards here was a little more alert than I thought. But apart from that, it was pretty smooth." Bentley tut-tutted disapprovingly but relented when Sly used a cloth from his satchel to wipe away the blood.

"See-not that bad," said Sly. "After all, it wasn't actually broken. Just a little bruised and battered. But at least all the blood is gone. I'm perfectly fine now."  
"Okay, I admit I might have over reacted," said Bentley attentively, "But I think I might still have a look at it later to make sure. I want to make sure you stay in good shape. The way you're going you'll be bent completely out of shape-literally."

"Don't stress so much Bentley," said Sly, "All these things are just trophies for a thief like me. Anyway, shouldn't we talk about the main point of my calling?"

"Oh yes," said Bentley, "I suppose we should. After all this could be my last communication with you for a while. I can hear them coming now."

"Right then," said Sly, "I have discovered a whole stash of those clue bottles you mentioned, about thirty in total and I believe they do make a combination to a vault like you said. I have also found a vault the combination might belong to. Raleigh has hidden it away in a nook just beyond another gate. If there are anymore, I reckon them to all be like this. The only hitch is that I can't decipher the strange codes in the bottles-that's more your department."

"Bang on the nose as Murray would say," said Bentley, "Now, could you scan those codes into the data banks of your Binoc-u-com and then I can decipher them on my computer. With luck all of Raleigh's bottle codes will be the same and we shan't have to do this every time. As for opening the vault, I believe you're already very good at that."

"Perfectly right," grunted Murray again from somewhere in the van.

"Yes pal, you're right," said Sly, "I'm scanning the codes in now."

Sly had a slight grin on his face as he held each slip of paper in turn up to the lenses and a brief flash of white scanned them in. Finally he did the same for the thirtieth scroll and all the codes were contained within the data bank. Multiple clicking sounds and beeps were heard as the codes scrolled over Bentley's screen back in the van. With his friend's finesse, the codes would stand no chance. The codes transmitted back to the Binoc-u-com would also be handy for cracking any codes later on. Maybe even the whole Fiendish Five used the same system.

"Interesting, very interesting," Bentley mused as Sly looked back through the Binoc-u-com. "An unusual system of codes here. It would seem that Raleigh has chosen to use a system where there are multiple layers of numbers standing in for letters which are in turn translated from different languages. One must translate from numbers to at least three different languages before the code can be broken into English. Clearly Raleigh has been careful not to use French as he would know from Clockwerk that we can speak that too."

"Sounds very complicated pal," remarked Sly, "But I'm sure you can crack it. We must get those pages. Whatever is in that vault is probably valuable anyway."

"It is complicated," said Bentley, "But I can crack it for you quite easily. I should have the code ready in a few more seconds. I am not surprised you found it hard to understand, just a moment." Sly heard a few more sounds of a computer clicking away and a few sighs of understanding and comprehension from Bentley. Finally he heard a sound like violin, as if the computer had finally hacked the code and there was a ding. Bentley shimmered into view.

"Here it is," said Bentley waving a piece of paper, "The final code-done and dusted. I have also re-transmitted all the deciphering back to your Binoc-u-com in case you cannot contact me after this call. But we should open that vault now. Are you ready by those tumblers? I'm reading you the code now!"

Sly kneeled down to the height of the vault-it was mounted on a pedestal about eighty centimetres high and Sly was about six feet tall. Placing his left hand on the tumblers, he listened for Bentley's transmission.

"Scroll in the number nine first," said Bentley. Sly scrolled in the number nine.

"Put the number three onto the second dial," Bentley said. Sly spun the dial until it came up with the number three.

"Finally," said Bentley with enthusiasm, "Roll in the number one." Sly placed his hand on the final tumbler and rolled on the numeral one. Instantly the vault gave a hissing click and the door slid forwards slightly, then swung out in an arching fashion and left a gaping opening in the block.

"That was a piece of cake," gushed Bentley happily, "Now, what do we have in that vault Sly?"

"I don't know yet pal," replied Sly, "I still need to check it out. Hold on a tick." Sly reached into the vault and brushed away a few cobwebs. An electric filament must have been wired into the vault for a small, naked bulb gave out a flickering light. The vault was rather shabby, as if it hadn't been attended for a few years - sixteen years in fact.

Sly saw another podium placed in the centre of the velvet lined vault and a plaque rested atop it. But he was not interested in the strands of copper bent into the shape of a stand, but what sat on it. Dropping the Binoc-u-com onto the floor of the vault, he reached out with trembling hands and retrieved the withered pages that sat there. Brushing dust away from it he felt his heart leap and his eyes bulge as he realised what he was holding. Above the faded writing inked onto the page was a single name; Helen Elisa Cooper. Just below that there was another strand of writing which said; Ireland - 1934.

That was the year in which his great aunt Helen had been active. She had also been born in Ireland. Sly only had a faint recollection that his mother had had Irish roots-at least, that's what he thought. He knew she was famous for her dive-rolling technique. Maybe the pages he held now detailed that skill. He wouldn't be surprised if they did-he held three pages in his hands devoted to her entire entry in the book.

"Well?" asked Bentley excitedly, his voice issuing from the vault, "What did you get?"

"We hit the jack-pot," said Sly, "Our first pages from the Thievious Raccoonus! Even better, they detail the directions for learning my Aunt Helen's dive-rolling technique. Now I'm one step closer to becoming a master thief and reviving my family legacy."

"Hoo-hah," yelled Bentley and Murray at the top of their lungs. "Supreme victory, well done Sly - where're on our way there." More excited yells and hoots of ecstasy issued from the vault as Sly picked up the Binoc-u-com and resumed the conversation.

"Well," said Sly, "I had better hit the road now. If Raleigh finds out I have these pages, he's going to crack down. With Interpol on their way, there is pressure on both sides of the schism."

"Sure Sly," said Bentley, sounding somewhat on high, "But before you go, I have more information for you that might be helpful. Oh, and you should learn that move from your aunt. It could be handy."

"I intend to," said Sly, "It will be very handy. And now, what's that information you have for me?" He slipped the pages safely into his back pack and secured the latch-he must not lose them.

"Oh," said Bentley, "Just something which might help sabotage the storm machine."

"Excellent," said Sly, "Fire away then Bentley."

"Right," said Bentley, "I have discovered how Raleigh works the device. It is quite simple bit ingenious really. The entire mechanism is contained within that blimp which is capable of independent travel anywhere on the planet. It is powered by a multitude of wind power, solar power, a self contained geothermal unit and many other methods. In short it is self sustaining and can float anywhere on its own.

"But is does need another power sources outside itself to operate the powerful devices working the storm machine. Those will be contained within Raleigh's hideout and are probably something to do with geothermal power as well. According to my research, this promontory sits directly on an ideal tectonic fissure. Raleigh oversees everything from his own personal quarters in the head of the blimp. That way he is never caught and his operation is completely mobile. We aim to end all that by obliterating the blimp itself and not just the power source."

Sly nodded in an understanding way and waited for the next part of the lecture.

"Finally I believe that the storm machine works on a basic principle of precipitation. Somewhere in the blimp should be contained a large reactor pool if you will, and that pool is full of water kept at a low temperature. When he wishes to 'manufacture' a storm, Raleigh simply needs to warm the pool up slightly so that the resulting steam is absorbed into a ventilation system. The steam is siphoned at high pressure through pipes and turbines before it is jettisoned through a funnel in the roof and pumped into the sky, creating an artificial cloud.

"After that, it is simple. All he needs to do is reverse the temperature of the reactor pool to stop the creation of steam. Then he empties the remaining water in the pool through another piping system where it to is pumped at high speed out through the funnel, right into the cloud. This prompts the artificial cloud to open up and let down an actual torrent of rain. With the deice working at full tilt, Raleigh can create a storm as big or small as he wishes and even make an existing storm worse. The lost water is regained from the rain during the storm and the reactor pool is refilled. The whole system relies on the geothermal power and the reactor pool as far as I can wrangle it."

"What a mind boggler Bentley," said Sly, "Well, thanks for the dossier. I really had better get going. I'm also itching to learn that skill. Keep up the excellent surveillance."

"Sure Sly," said Bentley, "More pages are surely on the way into our hands. Good luck. Ah, wait a moment. What? Arrrgggh, look out Murray." Bentley gave a sudden yell of distress and his com-link fizzled out and powered down.

As Bentley's image disappeared Sly rattled the Binoc-u-com in alarm and sudden concern. What had happened to his friends? But suddenly he remembered Interpol and what Bentley had said about them being so close. Carmelita must have finally picked up the scent. Whatever was happening back at the van, Sly knew that his friends were in safe hands. Anyway, they were capable on their own.

Carmelita was not cruel and Sly knew as he had thought before that she would never kill anyone. Murray and Bentley were in good hands until they escaped or he could rescue them. Anyway, Interpol wouldn't be leaving the island until he and Raleigh were apprehended. Carmelita might have two of the Cooper gang, but she wouldn't leave without the third. Bentley and Murray would remain on the island until he left. It was as simple as that-as long as he could evade Carmelita long enough to steal the other pages.

Anyway, he knew what Bentley would say. Not to worry about them and complete the mission. Stiffening his resolve and promising himself Bentley and Murray would be okay; Sly returned the Binoc-u-com to his pack and leaving the pile of bottles and paper behind, turned towards the glowing key.

Sly came to the edge of the next three waterwheels: he looked carefully around, making sure no security could be concealed anywhere. But he was quite sure the very last leg of the journey was secure. The grassy ledge was only three metres wide and nothing sat upon it apart from the key, the crevice leading to the lake and a few ropes dangling from the towers to the cliffs. The only security was the green laser field surrounding the key. In fact, the stand made of twisted copper strands, crowned with another small effigy of Sir Raleigh, suspended the key in mid air through some kind of magnetism.

Occasionally the sparkling electricity twinged and sparked, but apart from that no other activity occurred. Some kind of wiring trailed away from the circular base of the stand and disappeared into the rock. The dish that contained the key was also lined with what looked like tiny electric nodes, projecting the force field. Whatever they key was for, and it was probably of some use, Sly would need to break the laser shield before he could steal it. In fact Raleigh had probably put it there deliberately to annoy him if it was essential to his passing beyond the point. Time to wipe the smile of his face! Sly would show him. Time for the Cooper legacy to strike back!

#

Sir Eric Winchester Raleigh glared at the television screen. The meddlesome Interpol rats had entered the gate half an hour ago and Cooper was nearly to his boat. Worse still, he had regained pages of the book! Raleigh knew that could not be allowed. But he knew the insolent brat would never be able to get at his treasure keys - they were too well guarded. He cackled satisfactorily to himself. Yes, Cooper or Interpol had no chance of finding him. After all, he had the storm machine at his command. He held the boy in the palm of his hand. If all went according to plan Raleigh would capture Cooper before the night was out and take back the pages. Then he could do away with the meddlesome boy and rid the five of a final threat.

After that he would drive Interpol from his lair. All was going according to plan. He picked up a chocolate coated cherry from a box in a white gloved hand, imported from Belgium, and popped it into his large mouth. As he crunched the delicacy he continued to watch the screen. He remained blissfully unaware of what else was happening on the island.

**Moscow, Russia: 8:32 PM.**

He walked down the snow covered street, keeping the hood low over his face and eyes. Passing a pair of officers on duty he turned away and quickly strode further down the paved granite drive. Wet, melted puddles of snow sloshed beneath his feet as he walked, but he ignored this. The nine-towered structure that was the Cathedral of St. Basil the Blessed loomed over him as he hurried across Red Square. Passing along the banks of the Moscow River he pushed on. He passed a broad-shouldered man, who flicked a still lit cigarette into the canal. He passed a couple sitting by the river, locked in a romantic embrace. But he paid no attention to his surrounds. Finally, he came to his destination.

The hooded figure stood opposite a bakery on the high street. The lights turned green and he ran across the road, the engines of the cars idling like a cat's purr. Having reached the pavement, he stretched out a hand and let himself in through the front door. The jangling and tinkling of a bell was heard as it swung shut behind him. The sign over the door read: Helga's Homemade Pastries and Pies.

Once inside, the hooded man walked up to the counter, placing his hand upon it. Behind an enormous wedding cake topped with liberal lashings of icing, a middle-aged looking woman – an owl with greying hair – looked up at his entrance. She eyed him shiftily and her hand moved under the bench. He was quite certain that she caressed the handle of a pistol. He fingered the handle of his own weapon, a sharp sword that hung beneath his cloak. Suddenly she moved and he found the barrel of the gun right in his face. Also, quick as a flash, he whipped out his blade and pointed it at her throat. She backed against the wall, dropping the pistol. Pressing the point forwards he could see a drop of blood appear at its tip. Her eyes widened with fear and terror. He slid a piece of paper forward on the bench.

"I wish to speak with Boris," he said, in perfect English. "Where is he?"

"Vhot, who are you?" spluttered the woman in Russian, pinned against the wall.

"That it none of your concern," said the hooded figure, "Where is he?" His voice was low and steely, like a snake about to strike.  
"Vhot is this?" she asked, pointing at the piece of paper.

"Read it," he said his voice cold and menacing.

He withdrew the blade and she staggered forwards, scooping up the piece of paper. Her eyes skimmed the document as she massaged her throat. She contemplated it for a moment and then looked up at him. "Very well, he is in the back room. But don't be too long." She left the room and the stranger was alone.

He drew back his hood. He was a weasel with the creamiest-brown fur and a pencil-thin blond moustache. He wore a monocle on one eye; though he did not need it. A thinning mop of mousey-blond hair sat atop his head. His claws were long, sharp and deadly looking. A scruffy brown scarp of a tail stuck out at the back. He wore cream-coloured trousers with a black belt. He had on a buttoned up vest and a cream coloured jacket. He wore a blood-red tie around his collar. A leather scabbard hung at his waist, along with an elegant holster.

He slipped the blade back into the scabbard and walked behind the counter. Reaching down beneath the wooden work surface he pressed a button with his index finger. A rumbling sounded as a shelf on the back wall split in half and slid aside to reveal an open cavity, as a door swung open. He let his cloak fall to the floor and he strode into the room. The entrance then closed again after his entrance.

Inside the room was a wooden staircase leading down. He strode forwards and soon reached a large and cavernous space, its roof supported by many pillars. The space was brightly lit and great banks of electronic equipment were housed within. Workbenches covered with test tubes and beakers sat here and there while men and women scurried between them. They were all dressed in pale-green gowns with scrub caps on their heads. Some of them wore surgical makes as they leaned over benches and poured brightly coloured chemicals intro flaks.

Others were examining and fiddling with the strange electronic devices, reminiscent of something from Jules Verne. But the centre piece was were a great hunk of wires, pipes, cords and chips sat bound together to form one tremendous device. Working by it was an old owl with miniscule glass spectacles. The newcomer strolled over.

"Ah Stringer," called the owl in Russian, "Good to see you."

"Greetings Boris," Stringer said in Russian - then in English he said, "The work proceeds according to plan then?"

"Well, but not quite," replied Boris, "I'm afraid there are some stumbling blocks."

"Speaking of stumbling blocks," Stringer said, "I may have upset your wife just earlier Boris – she didn't recognise who I was and got a little shirty. She's okay but somewhat ruffled after I had to, persuade her." He paused momentarily.

"Helga will be fine Brendan," said Boris, "She never could remember faces. Least of all my associates; I dare say she isn't very fond of you." He gulped, looking awkward.

"Never mind that," said Stringer, "What of the work on the Spear-Head?" He pointed at the enormous device on the workbench.

"We are missing several important pieces," admitted Boris, "And I am unable to find missing portions of Sir Nigel's blueprints - he must have hidden or destroyed them."

"Curse that tortoise," said Stringer – deliberately saying tortoise - in angry Russian, "The last time we met was in Amsterdam, where I was born. That was sixteen years ago. The master will not be pleased." Boris watched Stringer pace back and forth looking troubled.

"Any contact from the master then?" he enquired.

"No, not a single peep," said Stringer.

"Busy with the Cooper gang I suppose," said Boris, "And Nigel's son I should think."

"That snot nosed brat," hissed Stringer, "He is involved with Cooper now? I think that my dear old friend is trying to warn him, help him stop me from reclaiming our, my invention; though he is too late. I have already provided the Five with several pieces, to help exact my plan. The Spear-Head is rightfully mine – Nigel was always too short-sighted."

"But Sir Nigel must be captured," interjected Boris, "Before he compromises our plans."

"I suppose so," said Stringer, "And then I will have his precious son." He leered smugly.

**This is Chapter 5 of 13 in Part 1 of 6.  
****Multiple characters are now playing for high stakes in the Cooper Gang's mission.  
****In what mysterious machination is Brendan Stringer embroiled - what is his connection to Bentley?  
I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and chapter nine will be out in a few weeks. As always, happy reading!**


	10. Chapter 9 - Taking the Plunge

**Chapter Nine: Taking the Plunge.**

**Note: Sorry this took a bit longer than expected, but hopefully other chapters will stay consistent. Chapters after this will appear every two weeks or so.**

Sly rubbed his temple thoughtfully. Five minutes after Bentley's call had cut out he had been forced to except that he may be on his own for at least a few hours. He also had to except that once she picked up the trail again; Carmelita would be hot on his heels. He would have to be very succinct to ensure the whole endeavour didn't fail before it had been barely completed. He also had the itching suspicion that Raleigh may even now know he was there. He thought it best to get moving, not knowing what tricks the slippery amphibian might try to pull-time to get to work. Sly turned towards his current goal.

His desire right at that moment was opposite him. It was to retrieve a key which was enclosed in an electronic force field. When Bentley had mentioned them once before to him, he had guessed they would be scattered about the island, as an added security measure. They were probably also needed to access many parts of the inner workings of the storm machine, that Raleigh wouldn't want being messed around with. His whole operation was balanced on the workings if the storm machine. And Sly's aim was to bring it crashing down. But he needed that first key.

It had a rather bizarre appearance. It had a length of fifteen centimetres and a width of five centimetres. It was made entirely out of platinum steel and along the blade of the key stretched a jagged looking serrated edge. The head of the key grip was sculpted in blue metals to look like the giant, bobbled hat that Raleigh had worn on his statues. A single opal gleamed from the hilt of the grip. Whatever locks the key opened, it looked as being a very big one; another gesture by the fiend to create grandeur and superiority. Clearly he didn't trust normal, everyday security as the key was about five times bigger than any other he had seen. Oh well, Sly thought; expensive taste or not, it won't be there much longer.

He gazed at the waterwheels churning beneath his feet. This time there would be no trouble. After his last experience he knew to tread very carefully when you were in a villain's lair. Inching forwards cautiously and stealthily, Sly placed his blue-booted feet on the edge of the first wheel. The surface was splintered and chaffed which provided him with plenty of grip. Securing his footing, Sly leapt across it like a sparrow and spun neatly onto the second wheel. Again the same feeling met his feet and he skipped lightly across, landing on the last waterwheel. All was still going well when Sly noticed a large clump of seaweed that had been drawn up from the water and been stuck to the wheel. He was too late to stop himself and his right foot collided with the slippery clump. His torso fell forwards as he was tripped up and by swinging his arms out in front of him wildly, he managed to propel himself forwards. Using the momentum of his swing, Sly managed to hurl himself onto the lip of the grassy ledge and he clung there, shivering slightly in the breeze.

After a second or two, Sly managed to push his body up onto the bank and was able to look around him. The waterwheels went on churning behind him, but the bunch of seaweed had become unstuck and fallen with a splosh into the water. Amused at his being tripped up by a weed, Sly returned his attention to the key hovering before him-it sat innocently in the air, as if calling out to him and tempting him to take it. But Sly knew better than to just try and take the key. Earlier on, when he was deciphering the clue bottles, he had noticed a red and white stripped voltage box bolted onto the cliffs above. The black cords trailing from it led back to the copper key holder. Anyone attempting to reach through that would instantly receive a paralysing shock of ten-thousand volts up their arm. That was not an option. Sly would just have to be patient and think up his own solution, this time without Bentley's helpful guidance. He sat back to ponder the question and as such never noticed the security camera monitoring his movements from a crack in the rock.

#

Bentley sat hunched up beside Murray on the wet grass, rain pattering off his glasses and running down his nose. Murray didn't look much better than Bentley and his ears were drooping, as if he felt cold. But Bentley knew that was not because of cold, but because they could no longer watch out for Sly. After the last Binoc-u-com communication Bentley had made with him, Interpol had arrived on the scene. Rather than fight, because they wished to show, according to Bentley anyway, that they weren't lawless thugs like the Fiendish Five, they had allowed themselves to be marched from the van and handcuffed beside it.

Several officers had made them squat on the grass while three more stood guard over them with pistols. Another six were inspecting the contents of the van and the final three were carefully inspecting the surrounding area. Only two members of the party were not doing the same. One of them was Inspector Fox, who was in deep conversation with a fellow officer. He looked important because he had a platinum gold badge pinned to his lapel. He was probably a sergeant. Murray also recognised him as the Labrador from the computer scan. From the conversation going on between the two of them, Bentley and Murray had gathered his name was Higgins.

Then as if sensing what they were thinking, the pair broke off, and the Labrador, turning away from Carmelita, marched over to Bentley and Murray. With a subtle wave of his hand to the officers they dispersed and allowed him to stand before them. The two friends glanced up at him. Higgins did not really cut an imposing figure for an officer. He looked about twenty-three years old with a billowing straw coloured moustache. He had thick eyebrows that hung down over his eyes and long, droopy ears. He wore a navy blue cap on his head and a navy blue shirt and a pair of trousers held up with a brown belt. A pair of handcuffs and a ring of keys jangled at his waist. On his feet he wore leather shoes with neatly and tightly knotted laces. His shirt was short-sleeved and he had muscled looking, lean arms. His whole demeanour and appearance was immaculate. He clearly wanted to make an impression. When he finally spoke it was with an English accent rather than the usual French.

"So you two are the infamous Bentley and Murray are you?" Higgins asked. "Where is your friend Cooper? We know for a fact that the Cooper gang is a threesome, not a pair." Even though his voice was business like Bentley at least thought he sounded authoritarian.

"Yes, you are right Sergeant," replied Bentley, "The Cooper gang is indeed a threesome. But Sly is not here as he has important matters to tend to himself. I'm afraid he really cannot waist time in the fashion we are now."

"Wasting time indeed," muttered Higgins, "Capturing the Cooper gang is really top priority for Interpol right now. As for wasting your time I can hardly see that as being relevant."  
"I'm afraid it is retorted," Bentley retorted calmly, "For I believe we can work together on our common goal can we not? After all, you too are after the Fiendish Five. If you allowed us to be freed it would really be more fruitful as our intentions are currently nothing more than honourable. Robbing from criminals is not the kind of crime I would personally consider to be dishonourable. We have only allowed ourselves to be captured so as to show you this."

"Honourable indeed," said Higgins, beginning to repeat his words, "Thieves are thieves I'm sorry mister Bentley, but we really cannot consider such an option. Interpol shall be quite capable of dealing with this independently. But I assure you that my comrade Miss Fox shall see to your incarceration. Interpol respects those who claim to do well in the world."  
"Then we could prove our intentions," Bentley said, getting slightly annoyed, "If you would just let us go. We both know Higgins that right at this moment Sly is in the bows of that madman Sir Raleigh's fortress putting himself in who knows what danger to bring down that criminal we all despise. Banding together would be far more sensible - then we could go our separate ways without need of any further conflict."

"It doesn't work that way," said Higgins, "You three are still thieves and, as Miss Fox rightly says, still need to be put behind bars. It is my duty to see to that and I would be breaking my oath to law work not to do so."

"But rules were made to be broken," Murray butted in, "You could do that much more good in the world, as we know you wish to by temporarily putting aside your duties and doing what you know to be right. Just because we are thieves Sergeant, it doesn't mean we are without motivation. Sly's parents died at the hands of these criminals and we are not allowed justice? That cannot be deemed as a fair world you are fighting for just because we had to make our lives as thieves."

"I, well," stuttered Higgins, "I didn't mean, well I guess when you put it that way. But still, the world is an unfair and saddened place. Not everyone can receive justice in this time. I should know that well. After all, my parents were killed a decade ago by these very same criminals. I to must fight against them and bring them down-it is the only way I can avenge them. I deeply sympathise with your friend but I'm afraid I cannot help you. I must do what is best for the rest of the world."

"I had no idea," murmured Bentley. "This is why you are here now Higgins? Like Sly you fight against the Fiendish Five to stop them doing to others what they did to you? But do you not feel noble doing that? Can you not guess how Sly feels?"

"I certainly do," Higgins whispered, "But I must stand by Carmelita and Interpol. Cooper would do well not to fight, but to come quietly. I cannot abandon my mission."  
"Then I am afraid we have come to a stalemate," said Bentley, "Like you Higgins, I remain loyal to my close friends and I will not allow Sly to be thwarted in his endeavour just because he is what he is destined to be. I look out for and protect what is dear to me also. If we cannot agree upon mutual terms, then I am afraid we shall have to part ways as unlikely allies. I ask you to reconsider your decision but we will not sit here to be torn away from our ambitions. That is all I have to say."

"I admire your loyalty and bravery," Higgins said, "I am sorry that this is how we have to part but that is the way of it. If you are to escape, I feel it only fair to say that we shall not give up on you. If being a thief is the path you choose, then we remain as opposites."

"I am a thief because I choose to be," said Bentley, "I chose the best option ever available to me and my friends. We never had many options, similar to you. We made our lives as best for ourselves as we could and I continue to stand by that. I respect that that is your ambition if you respect mine. I am sure that in this final word we can gain a mutual understanding of each other. At least take this thought away with you."

"I agree to that," said Higgins, "And I can see you will a worthy opponent. I will enter into that mutual respect as it is the best I feel I can do to understand you. I wish I could do more to help. I promise to remember that, should we ever to meet again face to face. If there ever is time we can assist each other then I shall do so. I will not be heartless to those who ache with pain the same as I do. When you next see your companion, please tell him this."

"Thankyou Sergeant," said Bentley, "Should we ever meet again under different circumstances, I too promise to honour our bargain. Sharing your heart-ache with others who also need to share theirs will ultimately lead to a better future for all of us. So long Sergeant, and good luck in your endeavour-our combined endeavour."

"Thank you," said Higgins, "I appreciate your understanding as well - so long." Then as he was about to turn away he swivelled back around and added a final word-"Bentley." Then he turned back around again and walked away briskly, not turning back. As the officers resumed their positions, Bentley thought he might have seen Higgins blink back a tear. But he was gone before he saw anything more.

Bentley stared wonderingly after him, trying to fathom what he had just said. He hoped Higgins would sincerely keep the promise. But somehow he knew that he would not break it. He had sensed an inner struggle occurring inside the man and he knew that he shared pain similar to the three of them. Like it or not, it was almost as if the four of them were in it together, on opposite sides of a schism. The sergeant was not all that he pretended to be. He had an inkling suspicion that the same could be said for Carmelita.

To Bentley it felt as if there was a secret reason for her close attachments to Sly. It had to be because she in turn shared form of inner pain that she struggled with. Undeniably, somewhere at the end of it all she would reveal her true colours. Bentley thought that she would somehow end up assisting them right at Sly's most difficult point. There was another reason for her being there. She too was part of the journey they had begun and would eventually contribute to making the world a better place. It was not even four, but five who would eventually make the life changing journey to defeat the Fiendish Five. How life changing it would be for some of them, he could never guess.

#

Carmelita had stood by curiously observing the conversion between Higgins, Bentley and Murray. At first when she had seen them marched out of the van and handcuffed together, it had seemed routine and just what she expected. But she was curious as to the feeling she got that the pair had almost willingly allowed themselves to be caught. It didn't seem normal compared to the other braggarts she had dealt with for most of her career. There was something more, something almost understandable about these three. Deep inside her she knew that they held pain like hers. Despite herself she could not help but sympathise with them. They were a family, loyal to each other. They stuck together to the very end and had made the best of what they had. She admired their diligence. They remained loyal friends throughout it all. That was one thing she had never been able to say about herself since the death of her parents. She had never truly had friends.

Surrounded by the harsh world of the criminal element she was alone. As much as she knew she must remain loyal to her duty, she somehow longed to help them and do what she could to lift them from the darkness that surrounded their lives. She smiled and patted her shock pistol. There was one way that could be done. Ensure the Fiendish Five were put behind bars. Capturing Sly was no longer what she strived to do but merely just what she had to do. She had a duty but she could assist Cooper in whatever way possible. If she eventually put him behind bars, it would please Inspector Barkley as much as herself. Maybe she could make him see sense and eventually change him. End the feud between them across the opposite sides they shared. But until that time, he was a thief and she was an Inspector. She would fulfil her duty to capture him until that day.

#

Sly thought deeply about the problem that faced him. That of retrieving the first key that would allow him access to Raleigh's inner sanctum. Although no longer worried about Bentley and Murray, he knew he would have to avoid being captured by Interpol for the sake of the mission, until he had all the pages. Deciding to get his thoughts going, Sly paced across the small ledge, tapping his thigh with a forefinger, thinking deeply and thoughtfully. The only conceivable way to bring down the laser field was to cut off the voltage box. But as that was about five metres above him, it was not really an option. Getting to it risked falling several metres to hard stone and water below. He could break several bones and Bentley would never forgive him. There simply had to be another way. Then as if a light bulb had bloomed above his head, an idea came to him.

He crouched down, resting on all fours, and, almost slithering like a snake on his blue gloved limbs, crawled across the grassy ground. His snuffling snout raked the ground ahead of him as he crawled and a faint smell of electricity mixed with the salty sea air filled his nose. The taste of it rested on his tongue and it had a distinct flavour of tangy bitterness mixed with the tastes of copper and steel. A vague humming of a current passing along a wire could be heard closer to the base of the stand. Pushing himself upwards on his elbows while remaining close to the ground, Sly leant forward to examine the copper base. Twelve bolts lined the lower lip of the dish and a coil of copper curled around it at the top, ceiling the stand to its base. The humming sound emanated from beneath the copper base-a buzzing twang of electricity. The generator that channelled power to the stand above it seemed to be concealed in the base. Destroying or defusing the device would give him access to the key and give no need to disable the voltage box. Now he had to decide the safest and most efficient way to get at the device without risking a dangerous electrical overload. He would have to put on Bentley's thinking cap once again.

Then the simplest possible idea came to him. Why not just go for the good old simple plan of smash and grab? He looked down at the cane in his hand as he stood up and he thought. It seemed sensible enough. Just one quick smash with the cane and he could jump clear without risking any form of repercussion. After all, the cane had already been used effectively against Raleigh's security alarms. Why not just go for simplicity instead of worrying about complications? Not every obstacle had to be a mind bending puzzle. Now he thought about it, without extra security the whole concept seemed like a rather gaping flaw in the design. He just supposed Raleigh would have thought him to cautious for a reckless action such as this. And if it worked it would make retrieving any of the other keys far easier. Yes, Raleigh had overestimated his so called 'tight security'. Well he was about to be proved wrong completely.

Readying himself in case of any electrical sparking, Sly razed the cane like a light sabre in his right hand, for he was right handed; clenched between his forefinger, index finger and thumb. Poising his body for a sharp blow to the copper base, Sly swung his tail aside so as it would not get singed. Feeling his heart pulsing against his chest, Sly raised the cane high above his head and held it there, suspended in mid-air. Then he narrowed his eyes and brought it down with a cracking swing. He just glimpsed his anthropomorphic frame reflected in the copper surface before contact with the cane sent a jagged crack skittering all along its length. Instantly the reflection disappeared and the surface became opaque, completely fractured with cracks. The whole stand groaned and sagged slightly, and to Sly's excitement he saw the laser shield shiver and flitter as the dish wobbled to the left side.  
But it soon flickered back again, the now feeble electrical current buzzing loudly through the contorted wires.

Taking in the twisted frame of the stand, which looked something like a tangled puppet, Sly bought his cane about again for another blow; as of yet no electrical sparks had flared from the half revealed generator box encased in the base. The second wack proved too much for the copper construction and a tearing sound rent the air as it contorted further towards a twisted shape like that of a puppet. Again the laser shield shivered but when it finally flickered off, the nodes supporting it sparked and then fizzled out, each shorting into silence with an electrical pop.

With the shield down and the generator damaged beyond repair, the whole construction shuddered creakily and then came crashing down upon the lawn. Several filaments, wires and copper strands cracked and fell from the stand, rolling away along the grass; the dish supporting the key was now completely loose and slid free of the stand. As it crashed to the lawn, it to span away and the key was flung free, landing in a moist fern sprouting by the crevice. The remains of the construction crumpled over, ejecting a puff of grainy black smoke from the circuits, and collapsed entirely, looking like nothing more than a pile of rubbish. Giving a final dismissive glance to the miserable pile of dejected metal, Sly raced past it to retrieve the key: _one step closer to Raleigh's blimp and the storm machine's destruction.  
_  
Sly leaned over to peer down at the key lying quite dejectedly in the wet centre of the fern. Free of its grand, throne like stand it looked like nothing more than an over flamboyant truncate somebody had dropped. In Raleigh's case, that was really what it was. Sly crouched down and parted the fronds of the fern. Then seizing the key by the blue grip he plucked it from the plant. He tossed it once in the air in a kind of light-hearted celebration before he caught it again and tucked it into his belt. It nestled snugly beside his pouch. Then he turned to his right, leaving his back to the compound and crumpled stand, and stared into the dimness of the yawning crack in front of him. Although he could see along most of its length it was still quite dark and murky.

More moss and lichen rolled down the rocks in strangely geometric patterns and several small stones and pebbles littered the path. Some lanterns seemed to be jammed into cracks in the cliffs at regular intervals, but they were not alight, just dim and lifeless. Maybe once he found out what the first key was for he could activate them. Anything would make navigating easier as he was already soaking wet and dripping from the torrential downpour of rain. It was already hard enough to see. He also thought he could just see that the cliffs twisted off to the left, creating a hazardous bend in the path. He wouldn't want to run into that in the semi-darkness.

Immediately, as if someone had read his mind, a wave of luminescent green light washed over him. The whole clearing was suddenly filled with a blazing brightness of green that lit up not only what was behind him, but the entire length of the crevice beyond it. Sly swung around to look for the source of the sudden brightness, worried that Interpol had caught up with him at last. But he was surprised to found that nobody stood before him-nobody was even in sight except for the unconscious walrus. Then he looked above him. His nose pointed to the air Sly could just see a large ball of glowing green luminescence hovering above the isle, about fifty metres up in the air. A trail of wispy smoke snaked through the air to the spot the light now floated at and this told Sly what he saw. It must have been the flare or flares to mark important locations Murray had mentioned the last time they had talked.

He could see that the trail of smoke came from over a rise of cliffs that pointed back towards the promontory, where Bentley and Murray were now presumably in the custody of Interpol. Bentley must have set up one of his many remote controlled vehicles to send out the flare in case of any disturbance to their communications. Bentley had done his job well - Sly could now see that the flare floated just above the crevice he stood before, where he now knew he must go. He intended to move quickly so that he could return and free his friends as quick as time would allow. He would not leave them behind.

Passing beneath the flare now hovering high in the sky, Sly strolled up to the mouth of the crevice and without even a brief hesitation now, plunged into it. Immediately some of the light was cut off but much of the green aura still remained enough to light his way from the crack that ran through the rocks ten metres above. The green light flickered and reflected in strange patterns off the opaque glass lanterns, creating ghostly images. These didn't worry Sly however as he was used to operating in dark places. For a minute or so he continued along the winding rocky trail until he turned another corner. Returning his attention fully to the path ahead of him, Sly stopped suddenly, skidding on the wet grass. The gate he had long suspected to come now appeared before him.

Although it wasn't huge like the other security gates, it was quite big enough to hinder his way in such a narrow space. It was six feet high, moulded of more burnished metal and about four feet wide, hugging the walls of the cliffs. Like a cork in a bottle it neatly plugged up his way forwards. A heavy metal padlock suspended on thick chains hung over the centre of the gate where the two spindle like grates split to allow passers through. Some barbed and twisted wire ran along the top and trailed down the bars of the gate, deterring any forced entrance. Another copper wire trailed from the end coil of barbed wire to run several metres up the cliffs to another red striped voltage box. Maybe the lights were hooked up to the gate. Or maybe it was just another trap laid by Raleigh. Anyway, he would soon see. If he didn't get out of the crevice soon it might flood from the storm of rain and he would drown: another cunning trap? He made a mental note to learn the basic swimming strokes, because he hadn't yet learnt the basics of swimming, as he wrenched the key from his belt.

While he attempted to slot the key into the heavy padlock, Sly was still unaware that another security camera slotted neatly into the stones observed his progress.

#

On the monitor side of the device Sir Raleigh was still fuming and plotting against Sly, aghast that he had managed the capture of his first treasure key! It was absolutely preposterous. How had the insolent boy managed to steal his precious artefact? Both ways it was a desperate situation and he had to do something about it. He had seen the flare go up and he now guessed that Copper was making his way along the secret passage, in position of the first key which would allow him to pass through! Very soon he would be onboard the boat. The only bright side was that at least Copper's companions had been captured by the Interpol scum.

At least the rats had been good for one thing. Dealing with a single member of the infamous Cooper gang would be far easier. From what the leader had told him, Sly Cooper was a serious threat to the whole organisation and was not to be underestimated. Raleigh would not, must not fail. He knew of the possible consequences if he allowed Cooper to escape. That would not happen. Once Cooper arrived on his boat, he would have a few surprises for him. He wouldn't be getting his hands on any more of the pages from the blasted book or any more of his treasure keys. His loyal guards would see to that. And once he was introduced to his new ally, Raleigh was confident he would succeed. There was no cause to worry.

#

Sly raised the steel key to his gaze and examined it. The serrated edge designed to fit the unique curvature of the lock glinted and reflected the faint green light of the flare above. It looked more like an absurdly ornate treasure than an item with any practical function. Still, it would serve his purpose. Leaning forwards, Sly rested a hand on the rocks to steady him and neatly slotted the tip of the key into the opening in the heavy lock. Without really even a slight push it sunk in easily, pushing itself into the heart of the metal. Nothing could now be seen of it except the handle protruding outwards. Applying a liberal amount of pressure to the handle, Sly turned the key to the right, counter-clockwise, and it suddenly spun loosely and tore itself from his grip. Sly's eyes followed the dizzying path of the key as it spun in several loops around the slot in the lock.

Eventually, after several seconds, it stopped turning and with a gentle clicking sound slid from the lock, landing on Sly's boot. Quickly he snatched it up again, as it would probably be useful later on, and straightened up, this time slipping it in with his Aunt's papers in his pack. The oversized loop of steel holding the lock onto the chains now hung open, swinging in the slight breeze. With a sharp prod from Sly it shook and fell with a resounding thud, which echoed of the chasm walls, and hit the grass. With nothing holding them in place the chains immediately uncoiled like several angered serpents and slithered from the bars to land next to the lock with another thump. Stepping over the pool of metal, Sly gently pushed the gate with his glove, the green light floating above him.

The halves swung inwards silently and came to rest on the rock walls. A small shower of limestone dust rained down from the cliffs as the small vibration shook free the loose granules. Brushing the grains out of his eyes and from the brim of his cap, Sly made to move forwards, beyond the gate and around the next corner of the crevice. But as he was about to make his move, a series of electrical buzzing sounds occurred all at once. He turned back to the gate to see a bright blue electric current surging down the barbed wires of the fence and make contact with the cord trailing upwards to the voltage box. Clearly he had also activated some kind of electrical circuit as he entered - not quite the trap he had suspected.

The current continued surging along until it met the underside of the voltage box and disappeared into a series of wires underneath it. There were a few crackling sounds and then a small, red light on the box flashed into life, mixing weirdly with the green light above. Another series of buzzing noises sounded and these were followed by the sound of mechanical whirring. Then as if they had been waiting for that moment, each lantern mounted metres above his head sprang into life and slowly creaked upwards, pointing towards the sky above. Finally another clicking noise completed the cycle and each light flashed on, sending a powerful shower of light across the path, illuminating it even more thoroughly than the flare, mingling strangely with the green luminescence. Sly grinned-Raleigh must have created the system so he and his henchman could easily pass through. Now it would do the same for Sly. His journey was now just that bit easier.

Giving the intricate system of glowing circuitry a second appreciative glance, Sly smiled slightly and turned back to the passage beyond him. All along its length, yellow rays bathed the cliffs and rocks, giving it an almost cheery feeling compared to the sombre and moody darkness of before. The sudden brightness was almost blinding compared to the dimness he had been used to. Briefly, he brushed his right hand behind him and through the many layered contents of his pack, quickly assuring he had returned the key safely to his keeping. It still lay comfortably nestled in amongst his other documents, safe and sound. Content with the verdict, Sly retracted his hand and straightened out, stretching his limbs and giving a quite yawn. Shaking himself out fully, Sly appreciated what a difficult night it had been - and there were still many challenges ahead of him. Raleigh was surely now conspiring against him right this minute, somehow watching him and monitoring his moves.

The slippery amphibian was not to be trusted. He would be highly unpredictable.

Keeping this in mind, Sly quickly checked himself over, looking for scrapes and bruises-there were none - and made certain that all his gear was secure and in place. It all was. He had his cane gripped firmly in hand. His Aunt's papers were safely in his pack. Once he had a few minutes to learn those skills he would be just that bit closer to unlocking more of his family's secrets. Eventually he hoped to know every skill they presented to him. He was ready to go. Sly gave the area a full three-sixty glance, watching for any hazards, and then he set his jaw firmly, readying himself for the plunge. He dived between the cliffs.

The slighter denseness of the shadows in the narrow portion of the canyon engulfed him, as if long and spindly fingers were encircling him in their grip. With the minimal lighting here, even with the lamps and Bentley's flare, Sly doubted that any devices that Raleigh might now be using to monitor him would really be of any use. It was just about to dim to make out anything clearly. Still, he didn't want to give Raleigh any excuse to survey his movements for too long. He couldn't afford for the plan to go awry. He started forwards again and stretched out his fingers in the darkness, feeling along for the craggy, moss covered sides of the cliffs.

His hands met with the moist surface and he continued to follow the line of rock, so he would not suddenly run into any walls. The nearest lantern now sat high above him, its gleaming shine barely reaching the floor of the canyon. A few times Sly caught his foot on a stone or pebble and stumbled, letting out a fluent torrent of incoherent words in French. Sly occasionally liked to do this for the amusement of it, since they could all speak it fluently anyway.

He continued cautiously, letting his instincts and his sniffling nose lead the way. Finally, after several rain swept and miserable seconds, Sly found the path opening up again and the crevice was once again bathed in light, though this time by the silver rays of the moon. He had travelled far enough that he had left the lanterns and the flare behind, concealed beyond the stones of the cliffs. It didn't matter now anyway, he could see now by the moonlight on its own. He liked that-a thief only needing to rely on his own cunning. But as he was commending himself for his growing understanding of his family's skills, he found himself hitting a large object that spanned the width of the path. The side of his face grinded briefly off of the surface before he sprung back – then collapsed in a heap onto the gravel path. He had just collided and run into a rock wall.

Picking himself up again and shaking his head, Sly shook of the dizzy feeling garnered from his sudden collision and glanced in front of him to see what he had hit. He was amazed he had managed to run into any obstacle. But he now saw how it had happened. Although the path had originally seemed like it might have been roughly cut by machine, it now looked as if it was actually a naturally created fissure in the limestone, gouged over centuries into the surface by wind and rain. Raleigh had just taken advantage of the natural occurrence and suited it to his purposes.

The obstacle that stood before him was a small ledge of darkened limestone, clay and sand, tightly packed together and over-flowing with darkish green moss. A natural rise in the surface of the chasm followed on from the crown of the ledge and continued snaking its way along the canyon floor. What had seemingly happened was that the earlier section of the path had been worn down at a faster rate, thus creating the dip in the path and the sudden ledge. He supposed the original path had been positioned on a bank of softly packed clay or sand, which was why it had eroded so easily compared to the section of the path before him. The foundations it rested on looked as hard as granite.

Presently, Sly shook himself from his reverie of examining the marvels of geology and thought hard. For the past ten minutes he had begun to think alarmingly like Bentley and he didn't want to become too much like his friend-a thief couldn't afford to be distracted on the field. He would leave the intelligence work to Bentley. He scanned over the cleft of stone and noted that it was only about two metres high-only a little lower than himself as he was a little over six-feet tall. He could relatively easily hoist himself over the ledge with his arms and feet, maybe even use the cane to hook onto something. But he didn't favour the idea - it was just too clumsy for his taste and he thought a thief should look more elegant or practiced where possible. Choosing rather not to dent his family pride, Sly set about thinking up another way. Then he had an idea once again.

His family could help him once more. Excitedly he slipped his pack from his shoulders and swung it onto a nearby rock. Flicking back the latch and opening the top of it he plunged his hand into its depths and rummaged around momentarily before extracting the papers scripted with his Aunt's dive roll technique. He rifled through the three worn parchment slips and eventually found that the second piece of yellowed parchment boosted a description of the technique in crammed, but neat, curly writing in faded black ink. Dropping the other two sections of paper safely back into his pack, Sly leaned forwards and attempted to decipher the writing.

The lettering boosted a description of how the move was carried out and how it did and would look. It also described how it felt to undertake the move and how it could be learnt. Seemingly, from some more of the writing on the upper half of the parchment, his Aunt had perfected the move while plundering valuable gems from mines and other open-cut areas in Ireland, which had previously been annexed by greedy and thieving crooks and vagabonds. She had used the move to swiftly and silently traverse the rocks and tunnels of the mines as well as the streets and rooftops of buildings. It was a fast and effective way to travel.

A faded and worn illustration of his Aunt, in what looked like graphite pencil, surmounted the upper corner of the page. She had a slim and flowing physique like most of the Cooper family and Sly himself. She had an elegant, hour-glass type figure and an enormous bushy tail that flowed onwards and ended with a delicate curl. She also had a long neck, luxuriant eye-brows and large ears like sails. Over her startlingly blue eyes she wore a black cloth like Sly and a small, black nose poked from under it. Lastly she had a tremendous mane of ginger hair which flowed in curling locks from the top of her head down to her hips.

The picture was completed by a few minute freckles that speckled themselves over her visage. Like Sly, she too was attired in a tight fitting tunic that accentuated her body and gave her an almost regal look. She looked almost disarmingly beautiful, but cunning. Somewhat like Carmelita-that somehow didn't seem a coincidence. Sly thought about Carmelita so much now that practically everything he looked upon reminded him of her. He desired to have her company all the more but knew that he mustn't dwell on it. He would get back onto his present task.

Just as he was turning back to the text on the page, Sly noted a second and smaller picture of his aunt. This time it was in a faded form of black and white print, seemingly captured by an old-fashioned flash camera. Although the image pinned to the paper was now rather opaque and worn, Sly could still easily make out the image captured within it. His Aunt was depicted in what was seemingly the midst of a leap or roll between two roof tops over a packed street below. She was pin wheeling over a frayed rope like a ballerina on a stage. Apparently she carried her own personal photographer. But that was not the strange thing about the picture. Just above where someone had inked in the dates and the name Helen Eliza Cooper, a small anomaly appeared.

It was a brief shadow, a ragged shape that seemed to be soaring through the sky some distance behind his Aunt- which she hadn't seemingly noticed. It had an almost eagle like appearance. It somehow seemed out of place. Sly had remembered reading up in one of Bentley's text books on Eurasian eagle owls-this shadow looked somewhat similar. But how could it be? Eagle owls were never known to be found in Ireland. Sly felt something vaguely disconcerting nibble at the back of his mind. He felt sure that the symbol meant something. It had some sinister purpose. Eventually he would have to find out the significance. But for now he returned to his task.

After several minutes of mumbling the technique and rehearsing the moves in his head, Sly opened his eyes and cleared his mind, ready to finally tackle it. Once more he quickly ran the woods of his Aunt through his head before lowering the paper and returning it to his back-pack. He closed the latch and secured it on the rock. Then he turned back towards the ledge of limestone and closed his eyes, mumbling the words again to himself. He flexed his whole body and ripples of calm emanated down his limbs and all along his stripped tail. He felt his body readying itself, as if coiling up like a spring, readying to take the plunge. Gradually he leant forwards and stretched his fingers outwards, as if feeling for the objects that lay before him. Once he felt like he had extended himself far enough, he ceased his footing on the hard rock and let his body go.

It was an amazing, almost astonishingly alarming sensation. He felt his whole body pitch forwards and upwards, his feet flipping up and pointing towards the darkened sky. He felt himself pick up speed as the wind began to rush past him and howl in his ears. Then another feeling took over; wonderful feeling of serenity and smoothness that washed entirely over his body. He finally opened his eyes. His own body, indeed the whole world around him was a blur of colour and sound. He could barely make out anything on either side of him except indistinct shapes and colours and yet, inexplicably, he was able to see ahead of him as clear as anything, a sort of image in his mind. It seemed that being in his present state of mind created this. He could only imagine what he looked like-a rolling blur travelling at tremendous speed.

He imagined it was like doing many, many somersaults hundreds of times over. No wonder his Aunt had chosen to optimise the technique of dive rolling - it was fantastically illuminating and fulfilling, not to mention efficient. Travelling as a speeding ball of energetic colour he was virtually soundless and silent. He grinned and then whooped with the sound bouncing off of the canyon walls as he realised what he had just accomplished; the very first of his family's ancient skills he had once been destined to learn-from the very pages of the Thievious Raccoonus itself! He was once again fulfilling his destiny.

Realising he would have to return his mind to the mission, despite the exciting prospect of his recent accomplishment, Sly closed his eyes again and calmed himself down, slowly releasing his energy. Gradually, as he felt his body relaxing and calming down, he slowed and came to a gentle stop where he found himself flipping right side up and standing neatly on his own two blue-booted feet. He had carried the move through with perfect succinctness and prowess - if only his father had been able to see him perfecting the move years before: he would have been proud that his own son was continuing his legacy. Sly's prowess had probably been boosted by these strong memories. This ability to feel for others and yet not entirely cling onto the past had given Sly the chance at his potential. He now felt his mind and body gradually opening up to a larger prospect - the world seemed just that little brighter and more sparkling, more wondrous. The night somehow didn't seem so dark. Sly smiled encouragingly to himself and with one more silent whoop of delight, he made to scoop up his pack and continue on his way.

As he was thinking merrily of how he would attempt to use the move again at a later date, along with any of the other skills he eventually hoped to learn, Sly glimpsed from the corner of his eye that a strange golden light seemed to be emanating from underneath the flap of his pack. Frowning slightly he swung it over onto his right shoulder and pushed back the latch again. But when he opened it and flicked back the flap, all he could see was his Aunt's papers, sitting innocently and unassumingly atop the Interpol file. He could not see where the mysterious glow of gold had come from. Slightly mystified by the momentary occurrence, Sly shrugged his shoulders and closed his pack, swinging it back over his shoulders and trying to push the happening out of his mind. He would have more time to fathom that mystery later. For now he had to concentrate on his mission of bringing Raleigh to justice for those very papers which he had stolen. And four kilometres away, with Higgins by her side, Carmelita was thinking of the very same thing.

Sly stretched and yawned, arching his back and splaying out his arms and legs. He wriggled his toes inside the blue boots and flexed his fingers in their blue gloves. It had been a tough and rigorous night-and there was still a way to go. He had really only scratched the surface of the villainous operation occurring on the Isle of Wrath. Much more hard work and need of his thieving skills would be required before the first goal was complete. And after all, he reminded himself, with Bentley and Murray captured it has already made it that much harder. Hopefully they would be able to free themselves before the night was out.

Once the papers were in Sly's hands there was no telling what Raleigh would do. If at the very least he had to avoid meeting the slimy amphibian, he hoped he could do as much damage to the monster's pride as possible. Completely destroy his operation and the image of terror that came with it. In the end he hoped to ruin the entire reputation of the Fiendish Five until they were nothing more than petty criminals behind bars. In fact, he would welcome a one on one with the very villain who had helped destroy so many lives.  
But to do that he would have to focus on the task at hand and use all his personal skills and prowess: this was really when he could do with his friends beside him. Avenging many hundreds of people as well as his personal family was not an easy task to take on a single set of shoulders. But for now the weighty task was his alone.

He knew that if the opportunity was given to them, his friends would be with him every step of the way, sticking together as a family, until the very end. He was really the luckiest raccoon alive.

Regretfully pulling himself away from his melancholy lamentations, Sly sternly told himself that now was not the time for him to be emotional, with his friends at risk, but now was the time to act upon his instincts. He readied his body, tensioning it as before, ready for the dive-roll at the ledge of stone. Again his body felt itself coiling like an agitated spring, building up energy for the imminent plunge. Then he released the energy, letting it flow from his body like an invisible wave of water. He surged forwards.

The world on either side of him blurred and then morphed into a whirl of colours and sounds. He could here as sharp as anything the sounds of the thunder and lightning, the heavy downpour of rain and the crashing of the waves on the basalt cliffs. His thieving instincts seemed to have become attuned ten-fold once again. He glanced up briefly as his body rolled as a blur towards the ledge and quickly tucked his head back in, the rocks now roaring towards him. He felt his pack thump against the ground and his cane convulse violently as it was jiggled in his belt. The rolling blur of raccoon plunged forwards and as he leant slightly to one side, a strange new sensation occurred.

The whole rhythm of the roll changed and the streamlined current of his slim body seemed to cut away from his central path. He now felt himself rolling upwards, as if along a very steep slope. He managed to just open his eyes in the blinding winds and glimpse at what was happening. He gaped inwardly at what he was now doing. Without meaning to accomplish it he had turned the trajectory of his course towards the chalky cliffs of the canyon. His speed had been at such, that he had not stopped rather than pick up pace as his spinning body mounted the cliffs and twisted into a horizontal position. He was now rolling along the wall of the cliffs like a race car on a Ferrari track, leaving a blaze of sandy dust in his wake. He spun about like a child's spinning top.

It was truly incredible. With his singular skill he had incidentally added to the technique, he had now created enough friction to travel on a vertical surface. His Aunt had never talked of accomplishing this in her documents. Seemingly Sly had incidentally unleashed some of his own brand of true, thieving potential. It was the vertical raccoon role. He hooted again happily-his brand new technique was going to come in handy. Suddenly feeling more energy surge through his body and into his chest, Sly felt his movements pick up speed as he mounted the rise, came over the ledge, and continued rolling along the walls of the canyon, towards Raleigh's boat. The blur of sand was so fast that not a single security camera saw him go. Meanwhile, Sir Raleigh growled his displeasure at the sudden swiftness and apparent disappearance of his quarry.

The blur of colour continued its enigmatic path as it paved the way along the moss covered limestone cliffs. Sly was becoming so fast that he barely needed to glance ahead of him as in his inner mind the mental picture, created by his instincts was guiding him. It felt quite marvellous to be so wonderfully nimble and quick and yet not to have to constantly rely on the concrete world of vision. He could travel swiftly and focus on his inner thoughts to guide him. His first taste of what it was to truly be a master thief, to know the skills necessary to become one, was truly marvellous. The more he thought about it, the more the Fiendish Five seemed to pale in comparison.

Led by a jealous, malicious leader, they had seemingly attacked the Cooper family simply for their skills and aptitude. Burning rage, jealously and hate drove them on rather than a true skill of thievery. They were more petty criminals who relied on the many secrets and skills they had stolen to make their image. And the image they did create for themselves was only that of terror and malevolence. The skills they learned relied on base treachery, hunger and greed for their own desires rather than the Cooper brand of thievery.  
The Cooper family had simply ruined the image of the five, shoved them aside too many times, for too long. The more Sly simply thought about it that was really all that the malicious charade thought up by his nemesis came to: an act of vengeance and punishment for those who had defied and bettered him. It was all down to that one fact. And that driving force of maliciousness, hate and greed was what had torn apart his life. That was what must be destroyed and defeated at the very end. And through it would emerge the new layer of hope. And along with it the rebirth of a true legacy of master thieves: the return of the once shattered legacy of the Cooper clan.

Finally, after several more wonderful seconds of wind and colours, Sly felt his body slowing down and releasing the torrent of manic energy. Slowly his spinning frame descended the cliffs and he came to a gentle turn on the soft lawn of dark green grass that now lay underfoot. At last the spinning motion came to an end as Sly picked himself up and straightened his back, flexing his slightly cramped body after the intense spinning. Satisfied that he had not gained any significant knocks or bruises during the dive-roll, Sly blinked his eyes and began to observe the area around him. His pack rustled as he absentmindedly removed the hooked cane from his belt and again gripped it tightly in his right blue glove.

Quite a spectacle lay before him. He now stood in an open end to the canyon that currently yawned behind him. He was perched atop a lush grassy ledge, strewn with several moss covered rocks and pebbles. The area was open to the air and the wind whipped about his handsomely neat features. A series of similar jagged ledges and moss covered boulders led down to a precarious promontory that overlooked the tremendous lake. And before him sat, towering over him in all its tremendous glory, bathing him in its enormous shadow was Raleigh's gigantic vessel of a boat, strewn with its haphazard assortment of cobbled towers and cannons. It sat like a tremendous fortress in the heart of the lake.

#

Carmelita stood silently on the lawn of damp grass. She was deep in thought and her body barely moved. Only the tell-tale rhythm of her sweeping tail gave any sign that she was not as rigid as a statue. About her, her men ran about consulting each other's notes, babbling in unintelligible French and generally making a fuss of the situation. The turtle and hippo were captured, but the raccoon remained at large, seemed to be the general conversation. And if Carmelita knew Cooper, it would remain that way. He would also be back for his friends, she was sure of it.

The red fox toyed with the clasp of her belt, nervous at her apparent connection to the thief. Suddenly the old scar that ran down her back seared with a spurt of pain. That injury and how she had obtained it was one of the only relics of her distant past. But she had to keep her mind on the present, on her mission to incarcerate the villain that called himself Sir Raleigh. That was her mission now and her past was behind her - she must put it behind her. With an effort she swallowed down the pain of the scar and straightened up. She cringed slightly and shuddered. She scrunched her eyes closed and took some slow, calming breaths in an attempt to calm herself down. She let her mind wonder and then focus inwardly on her parents - her past so many years before.

Then she had not bore the scar. It ran over her back like a reminder that it separated her past and presents self. Everything that had happened before she had had it seemed like faded memory, a dream or even like some old film, worn out and forgotten. But it also reminded her in difficult times such as now that she had a future, she was not only left to flounder in the real world, dragged down by what had happened to her. Her future was in her hands and she intended to seize it with every fibre of her being. She would never trade places with the way it had been before her scar.

There was one place she had looked to always encourage her. At times like this her parents had been a source of comfort. But they were no longer here, tragically caught up in the ever widening web of villainy in which she found to be entangled. She intended with all her heart to make them proud, not let them be sorry that she had allowed herself to ponder in eternal sorrow. For she had not-she had a future and intentions for it. Sly was somehow part of that future and although she was conflicted between her own two warring sides, she knew that her parents would be proud if she was happy. No matter what or who Cooper was, if that was what truly completed her, her parents would be happy for her. It was now time to set out even further and complete her goals. She remembered what her mother had used to say to her at difficult times. She had always encouraged Carmelita with but one, single phrase:

"Fear not my dear. You can control your own path. You have all the weapons you need. Now - fight!" Carmelita opened her eyes. She was ready. Now she would fight!

#

Raleigh grumbled to himself. Cooper did not seem at all hindered by any of the obstacles that he, himself, had placed before him. And what had made matters worse was that his cameras had lost sight of Cooper in the canyon path. He could be anywhere now, boarding the ship or sneaking around in the grounds. He had to be dispatched and dispatched now! The darned raccoon must have gotten hold of his Aunt's papers. There was not really any other explanation. How could he be moving around so fast? Even so, a thought nibbled at the back of Raleigh's mind. Maybe Cooper had learnt many skills of his own before now.

Maybe far more so than the snivelling child he had encountered sixteen years before. There was no chose. He must take direct action. With Interpol virtually on his doorstep and the Welsh authorities closing in, it was only a matter of time. The section of the ancient tome that resided in his vault must not be captured. He must fulfil, his purpose, his mission in life. He could not bear to think of life without the riches of piracy and the Fiendish Five. At any moment that dratted kid that should have been wiped out sixteen years before might shatter his dream and destroy his master plans. He would need to make ready a plan. He would not fail the five or his master. The Cooper legacy must never be reborn and shatter their reputation. He was only too happy to oblige. It would succeed and Cooper would be beaten!

But why, he asked himself, why had The Master spared Cooper? Why had he left him behind when every Cooper had fallen because of his burning ambition, his absolute hatred of the clan? The answer he did not know and could hardly guess. The Master worked in mysterious ways: he did not question why. He just did what he had to and ensured that the grand scheme proceeded. It was not his place to wonder these things, as was it not for the others of The Five. There was some greater purpose that The Master had in store; he had drawn them together for their combined hate of the Coopers.

Raleigh told himself that it did not matter. As long as he kept those pages safe, as long as he had his treasure and gold, he did not care. He had what he wanted. He would rub out Cooper as easily as a fly on the wall. For Cooper had those weaknesses he despised and he would happily prove this as his undoing. He found satisfaction in this thought. He despised weaklings who had no real power as he did; those who lived with love and compassion. He had loved someone once, and that had been his undoing. Power was your one faithful friend. The Master had given them all power: he would overcome Cooper and prove that. Without it you were weak, with power, you were strong. Love was weak because one had to trust – bah!

**The Liner St. Petersburg, North Sea: 10:58 PM.**

Brendan Stringer stood atop the stern of the mighty liner St. Petersburg – named after the city in which it was built. The majestic vessel sliced through the ice-cold waters of the North Sea like a knife. Yellow light glowed from the portholes behind him. A faint droning and humming sounded, deep within the ship, while the massive engines powered the propellers. He could hear them swashing the water aside in their great arcs, pushing the great ship forward. Through the night, by the lights on the deck, he could just see the vague outline of some islands. The distant islands of Svalbard, appearing frosted and white with snow like a cake. He had important business her also. For it was here he would meet the master, here he could ensure his vengeance. Together they would conspire for Cooper's ultimate destruction.

But he not only came to ensure Cooper's downfall, but that of his old friend and now rival Sir Nigel McShellson. With the Spear-Head at his command he would achieve this: but his friend had betrayed him, taken his power from him. What should have been his had been stolen. All that could have been his was lost. Sir Nigel had been his friend, a one true friend. He had grown up poor, shunned by society, or so he thought, because of his misfortune. The family he had been born into. He thought he had found comfort – but no, you could not trust, you could not love. Trust only made you weak.

While he intended to destroy his old friend for this betrayal, he also thanked him. Ironically his actions had made Stringer release that to have power he had to act alone. Love only made him susceptible to his weaknesses, trust enabled deception. To have true power, one could not have weakness such as this, one could not have attachments. Power existed through fear and threat of force. He had realised that, because of society, being kind and loving could only get one so far. But it was never true power. Might was from the strength to deny one's weakness – to overcome them. This, The Master knew.  
**  
** This was how he had beaten the Coopers. Their weakness lay in compassion and love, while his cold and hatred made him powerful. Without emotion he easily quashed their flame. He had exploited their attachments and used these against them: to destroy them. Like The Master, Stringer hated Sly Cooper because he had everything he might have once done. He knew that the Cooper name would compromise his power. To rule he needed fear and he had to crush hope. He was strong, but Cooper made him weak - all that he stood for. A thief who actually cared? That was ridiculous, what kind of real thief – a villain - should care? He was undermined by the boy's very existence. But he could be destroyed: Stringer knew of his friendship with Nigel's son. Attack him emotionally and bring him down. Then The Master would have his final revenge against the Cooper Clan. He, Stringer, would obtain the power he had always deserved. Two enemies stood in his path. He could not have any attachments: to achieve his power, he would thrive in his hatred.

That was his strength.

**Uluru, Northern Territory, Australia: 11:01 PM.**

It was cold in the dessert at night. A chill wind blew across the arid landscape, the few trees bending in its wake. Spinifex and other plants rustled quietly. Apart from that of the pearlescent moon, only one light glowed in the darkness. The light came from a small fire atop a rock, where an Aboriginal Wise man sat by it. It spat and crackled through the night, easily masked by the rustlings of other animals put in the bush. The Wise man sat with his legs crossed, eyes closed to the happenings of the night. His great beard swished gently as he breathed, deep in contemplation. Before him the smoke of the air twisted and contorted into strange shapes, making pictures in the sky. The Wise man twitched and opened his eyes.

Glancing up at the fire, seeing the smoke, he stood up and walked closer. He carried a wooden staff tied to a stone that gleamed with a thousand facets. There was something mystical about the stone, almost magic in the way it reflected the earth and sky. But one could not tell. Standing over the small blaze, the Wise man waved his staff, as if conjuring an incantation and more images came forth from the smoke.

The smoke seemed to change with colours as images bloomed and went. The Wise man stood silent with concentration, staring at the fire; first there appeared images of a raccoon, a tortoise and a hippo. These evaporated to make way for an image of some cold and dark place, the sea frothing about it as rain pelted down. In his native tongue the Wise man chanted and threw several leafs and grains of fine sand into the flames. At once they changed colour and the smoke came forth again. He waved his staff and images of a fox, a dog and many more people appeared. Then he saw a frog like madman appear and the flames went red. All the figures disappeared in a cloud of red smoke as the frog image cackled silently. Then the raccoon appeared again, his face distraught and tear-tracked, being swarmed by the frog. The Wise man shook his head, causing the smoke to swirl and alter again.

More images, but this time evil and twisted, blossomed into being: a weasel staring across a dark sea, at some distant isle. A flash of silver as a blade was drawn. Several great brutes armed with guns and knives: a great blimp-like shape disappearing in flames. The Wise man's head began to throb and he sank to his knees. Instantly the flames cleared and he again saw the raccoon, this time intertwined with the fox. They spun about above the fire before a smoky blackness swamped them. This time a great dog, then a crocodile, then a panda bloomed in the fire. They all had looks of anger and rage upon their silent faces. The raccoon swam between them - the turtle, fox and hippo appeared again beside him. Then they were torn away again, consumed by the flames. All the other figures disappeared and were replaced by a single picture in the fire. A staff of dark wood floated in the blaze, before it exploded in a shower of sparks and a flash of light. Then a mask, going black and red and gold, appeared.

Shocked by what he saw, the Wise man rushed forward to sprinkle more sand over the fire. His staff glowed and the image became hazy, before sharpening again. The mask throbbed in the flames and suddenly he felt the night become somewhat colder. A definite sense of menace pierced the air. He turned back to the fire: it had one last sequence to deliver. In the place of the mask the raccoon appeared again, though doused in shadow. A monstrous shape erupted in flame and black smoke behind him, beating its awful wings. Piercing red eyes that turned everything black and cold appeared. The figure grew in the fire until it was like an enormous bat: it towered over the rock and cast supreme blackness about it. But then a golden spark of flame soared from the embers and the figure vanished.

Astonished by this, the Wise man hurried back to the fireside. The image of the raccoon glowed gold before him, bright light now shining in rays. The monstrous black presence was enveloped and became no more. The golden raccoon floated there momentarily, spinning slowly, when the fox, tortoise and hippo appeared again. The fox embraced him, shared a kiss possibly, while the tortoise and hippo cheered and wept silently. Then the images dissolved and the fire crackled. The flames sank and were swallowed in the embers. But not before a final puff of red smoke raised upwards, the malicious eyes just discernable once more.

The Wise man gazed with wonder at the glowing embers: he had never seen a prophecy such as this. He sensed danger, threat, darkness and an evil will of awful strength. He sensed there would be those who would commit bad deeds, in an attempt for power. He glanced around the dessert landscape; soon, but also in years, there may an ancient evil awakened here. He would do all that he had to protect it.

But the prophecy had also foretold of one who would overcome the darkness he had seen: this raccoon and his friends, who seemed to be symbols of hope and brightness - above all, love and compassion. He sensed one who had lost, but then gained because of kindness, friendship. He had this power, which enabled him to overcome the darkness. Was he a thief perhaps? If so, he realised his weaknesses and this gave him strength; to truly be strong one embraced this and did not try to escape it. There was conflict and emotion, possible regret. But this was strength and not a weakness. Hatred took while compassion could give. Cowards were those who ran from regret, became consumed by hate. To really be strong as one could, one realised his flaws. Then nothing could compromise who you truly were.

The Wise man stared down one last time at the fire, before heaping sand onto the embers, smothering the remaining sparks. He strode with his staff away across the rock and down to the sandy red soil. The light caught his moonstone and glanced off it like a thousand more moon beams. He closed his eyes and murmured a chant. Then he walked away across the dessert, eclipsed by the shadow of the great rock Uluru.

**Chapter 9 - Chapter 6 of 13 in Part 2 of 6.  
****The web expands and the true consequences and key players in the quest for The Thievious Raccoonus reveal themselves.  
****Sly and his friends are fighting now for much more than they first thought. Can they maintain their courage as master thieves and overcome The Master's schemes?  
****Chapter 10 will be published in about two weeks - as always, enjoy reading the story!**


	11. Chapter 10 - A Web of Wills

**Chapter Ten: A Web of Wills.**

**Author's Note: By this time some readers may have noticed what seem to be multiple spelling mistakes. I am keeping these words spelled as they are as this site corrects to the American spelling and this is not the spelling I follow - UK. Any other strange words are made-up character names or places.**

Sly stood atop the majestic outcrop and gazed unflinchingly towards the hulking menace that sat before him, at the heart of the tremendous loch. It was like a shadow that cast its unwanted presence over the island. The whole structure seemed to be lording itself above everything that lay about it. Raleigh's menace was the true terror of the seas. And the smug villain sat above it all, crushing anyone in the palm of his hand. The storm machine floated lazily above the crazy wooden and steel construction of the vessel. The mastermind truly controlled every aspect of his thieving and devious operations. At a single whim he could seize whatever riches he desired and nobody could stand before him.  
But Sly was determined to change all that.

He had that final score to settle with Raleigh. He had been the very member who had seized his family's book and torn it from cover to cover. And he had a large portion of the papers. For all the lives he had ruined, for all the lives he had shattered, Raleigh was about to get what he deserved. No longer would he terrorize innocent people. It was time he was stood up to. This was not only regarding Raleigh himself, but the whole Fiendish Five. They needed to know the pain of what they had done and the web of destruction they had caused. They had bitten Sly and his whole family and the wound ran deep. Now they would know what it was to feel what they had done! Time to bite back!

Fuelled by his thoughts of injustice, in the villain that reposed somewhere in the monstrosity before him, Sly fixed a determined look onto his face and returned to the remainder of the path. No obstacles such as lasers or any kind of gate or alarm lay before him. He could not see a single camera in sight. Clearly Raleigh had sneeringly thought that Sly would never have made it this far. Well, he was proven wrong yet again. That was the simple weakness of criminals like him-sheer arrogance and the tendency to brag. And if Sly could continue to exploit that in just the right way, he would continue to have the upper hand.

He was not going to let any trap of Raleigh's stand before him. Those papers were rightfully his and the slippery frog had no right to get his slimy flippers on them. Sly would show him that the Cooper gang members were just as capable working independently as in a team-that he didn't always need his friends behind him. Bentley would have been proud of that. He was not going to be letting them down this time.

Carefully, Sly examined any of the other natural obstacles that lay before him. Behind him rose a set of sheer limestone cliffs adorned in dark-green moss and craggy boulders. Stacked peaks of eroded and crumbled rocks sat atop each of them. The canyon was dark now as he had left the lights behind and could only see a very faint glimmer of green over the outcrops, emanating from the flare. The path itself was still scattered with pebbles and a fine dusting of sand. In front of him was a sloping series of smooth boulders mounted atop a narrow cliff, worn down to smoothness by the wind and rain. The cliff continued snaking outwards until it jutted way from the rest of the cliffs at the lake's edge and stood hanging precariously over the crystalline, smooth water of the lake.

Just below the surface Sly could see again glimmering specks of gold, silver and gems as well as the occasional mahogany fragment of a chest or barrel. More twisted wreckages of sunken ships, tortured by the wind and rain floated contortedly on the strangely smooth surface of the lake. The promontory itself stretched out over this patch of water and was decorated with its own coating of grass and sea daisies. Away in the distance, the opposite cliffs of the other bank appeared, with the torrential waterfalls flowing down them, the boulders packed against them and the lush sprouting of swamp trees hung about with vines atop their craggy surface. On this side of the bank more boulders and the occasional rivulet of water gathered in clumps at the base, on narrow beaches of grainy sand.

Only the occasional fern clump or laurel bush sprouted from the dirt encrusted along the narrow, jutting cliff. Aside from that, the only touch of green was the grass that grew there before at the end everything plunged into the lake. But Sly had noticed one other thing beside the natural, rugged features. Beyond the uneven stone steps extending away from the cliffs to the edge of the promontory lay a twisted wooden frame, swaying slightly in the wind. It was comprised of wooden sluts held together with rusty red nails and teetered at the edge of the cliffs. It created a sort of rectangular shape and Sly could see a winch with an ancient looking set of ropes, wheels and rusted cogs fixed to the top.

At the end of the fraying rope fixed to the reel of the winch hung a faded yellow hook, probably once meant for lowering cargo down to the banks for transport out of Wales. Another rusted set of control panels covered with dials and switches lay beside it, though it looked long out of use. A spiral deck of wooden boards surrounded the winch and was once seemingly meant to have been an observation platform. No kind of equipment lay beneath the winch on the shore except for a heap of wooden slats which, being mostly and somewhat submerged in the shallows of the lake, look like it had completely keeled over. But it was fine for Sly's purposes. If he could hook his cane onto the hook of the winch cable, it would be a perfect way to ascend to the level of the lake and find a path across the lake to the boat. Sly was light enough that it could probably hold him. And there was a second advantage.

Noticing it just then Sly saw that stretching just beyond the shoreline lay a haphazard assortment of floating barrels, torn chests, wooden beams, overturned boat hulls and what looked liked the twisted metallic remains of airplane wings. It seemed as if Raleigh did not just capture ships as he had thought. Sly shuddered to think of the fates the poor pilots might have met. Funnily enough, the trail of wreckage gave Sly the perfect path to cross the water and ascend the hull of the boat. With his quick and nimble reflexes it would be a snap jumping from barrel to barrel. So far he had managed to avoid the water all together - just so long as he didn't fall into it!

And to make matters even better, another series of frail ropes trailing from a winch that also seemed to be part of a cargo loading bay hung from the ridge of the hull to just above the water. Sly could climb up those and then he would be on board. The large gashes in the wooden hull of the vessel, from which more light came and had seemingly been torn in the violent winds of the storms, would also assist his ascent as foot holds.

Unlike the winch on his side, the one on the boat looked in good condition as it was probably used by Raleigh's men to haul treasure on board. Now it would help Sly on board-how ironic. There wasn't even a single walrus guard in sight. With his means of a path set for getting down to the lake, across it and up to the deck of Raleigh's boat, Sly gripped his cane firmly and eagerly leapt forward to take the coming challenge.

Just as Sly was about to make for the first winch cable, he stopped as he noticed a glint of silver from behind a laurel bush. Quickly he hurried over to the side of the path and pushed aside the delicate leafs. There behind the bush, sitting comfortably on the grass laid a silver, metallic node. A blue fluorescent dome was mounted atop its cone and the same single blue button sat on the side of the panel. Bentley had planned his strategy well. The node was just like the one Sly had discovered over half an hour before. Excited at what information Bentley might be able to give him before he plunged into the heart of the beast, Sly leant forwards through the sheets of rain and with a single blue gloved finger of his right hand, pressed the button. The dark and troubled turmoil of the clouded and raining skies above continued to thunder and rumble as the hologram bloomed from the intricate device.

#

Winston Nicholas Higgins stood by, watching the proceedings with a curious eye. Already slightly board at the rather routine proceedings, he was itching to get out onto the field and see a little more action than this. For the past half an hour since their conversation, the turtle and hippo had remained silent and completely untroublesome. The guards who had been standing about them seemed to have thought they would not be going anywhere as they had relaxed now and were exchanging polite small talk with their companions and scuffing their feet in a kind of bored fashion.

Meanwhile, the two captured thieves had not made any attempts to escape and were remaining completely silent. Nothing much was happening. Many of the officers were still scuttling around examining the equipment from the Cooper van and asking questions of the prisoners, for which they got brief and rather curt answers. Clearly the two of them planned to go nowhere at all until they were reunited with their friend. They were also persistently refusing not to give the game away - true friends in other words. Higgins absentmindedly wished to himself that he had friends as close as that besides the officers around him. He felt a little alone to say the least.

He glanced hopefully towards Inspector Fox who was in deep conversation with the senior officer Pierre; a strapping, coffee-coloured brown mule deer who was a true born and bred Frenchman. His great antlers soared from his head. They seemed to be discussing the tactics for the coming mission. Higgins was slightly jealous to say the least and his inner feelings seemed to roar up inside him like an angry lion. After this mission he hoped to be more of an idol in the Inspector's eyes. He felt that the inner journey within him was not yet quite begun and it had a long way to go before he realised his true potential and purpose. This challenge he was about to undertake was the key to unlocking that path. He just had to wait and take it as it came. He smiled to himself encouragingly. He was ready to begin.

#

Bentley sat patiently and calmly beside the van, letting the continual light drizzle of rain run down off of his nose and down his expensive, red Italian bowtie. After all, there was nothing he could do at present. And Murray knew that also. At this current time their only mission was to protect Sly and his desperate plan to retrieve the Thievious Raccoonus. There was absolutely no point in jeopardizing the whole business they had come here to perform in the first place. Anyway, for their own satisfaction Bentley knew that the pair of them also wanted the mission to succeed. It would cement the reputation of the Cooper gang and finally crumble the ill-gotten image of the malevolent Fiendish Five. It was a personal journey of self discovery and potential as well as just a simple mission.

It was like taking another step on a mysteriously winding path that Bentley had long guessed he must take. The whole journey was necessary to really unlock secrets about themselves as well as take back secrets wrongfully stolen from them. He also knew that the journey had another purpose-to finally bring together the two warring sides represented by Carmelita and Sly so as to finally fight the greatest evil of all. Only through unity could the ultimate goal be achieved. Higgins had broken through the surface of that. Carmelita was yet to finally open herself to the fact that despite his role in life, she and Sly were actually somewhat on the same side.

The true potential of unity and understanding was yet to be achieved. Once that happened, both sides could finally come together at last. Then the greatest challenge could be faced. And Bentley was quite positive that it would not be the last time. Once the journey was complete, that unity would need to be refreshed again. The bond, no matter how invisible it would seem to become, would always return clear and strong in the times of its greatest need. More than once would the two sides be drawn together and renewed to fight the growing maliciousness of the world. As one they would stand against the darkness that gradually feed and consumed upon the shattered life - light versus darkness. The light would return once again. The true bonds of friendship would unlock the potential.

At the end of the journey, that was what was truly to be discovered. The true potential of both sides was the true key to the problem. And the final piece to the puzzle at the end of the first journey would be Inspector Fox herself. Little did she know it but it was her purpose to secure the bond. Once she and Sly gained that full understanding of each other, the key would be complete: thief and inspector together as one - the true potential of love.

Smiling slightly blissfully and happily inside his head, imagining how much brighter the world would become once Sly and Carmelita finally came together in realising their true potentials; Bentley shook himself from his reverie and glanced quickly around at the scene. Nothing had changed really. Carmelita Montoya Fox, slightly letting her thick Spanish accent slide through under her French one, was still in discussion with the senior officer Pierre, while the rest of the officers and Higgins casually strolled about the lawn and exchanged quiet words in French.

While Higgins seemed pre-occupied in his apparently engrossing thoughts, the rest of the officers seemed just plainly casual. Even a small handful of them had taken out their platinum lighters and lit up a cigarette. The glowing orange tips sparked through the rain and the occasional puffs of smoke rose into the air and made Bentley choke and cough-as a rule he never had or would smoke. The same could seemingly be said for Carmelita, who was disgustedly wrinkling up her dainty black nose at the smell of the foul, grey smoke. Her tail twitched in evident agitation. She placed her yellow-gloved hands back on her curved waist as she stifled a cough and returned to the conversation.

Then, just as Bentley was somewhat nodding off, he noticed a slight shadow flicker by him. Quickly he snapped upwards and swung his head around to face the large clump of wet ferns that grew on the opposite side of the clearing. He thought he could just see the vague, dark shape of a pointed face and glasses, someone crouching in the bushes. But as he rubbed his eyes on a sleeve, he looked up once more and the spectre was gone. There was absolutely no sign anyone had been there. Trying to dismiss the unusual occurrence, Bentley put it out of his mind and turned towards Murray, who was taking a little nap with the occasional rumbling snore, on the softest patch of grass he could find. Seeing he seemed to be okay and in fact actually resting quite well, Bentley whispered a few words into his friend's ear.

"Everything is okay Murray - Interpol have not captured Sly and the mission seems to be succeeding. You should keep on resting-you need to sleep and build your strength up, we'll need it. Sly is safe, there is no need to worry yourself." He punctuated the last sentence with a hopeful tone.

"Thanks Bentley," Murray grumbled in his sleep through a snore, "I appreciate that."

He rolled over and gave a final grunt as Bentley sat back, resigned to the long wait.

Four kilometres away from his friends, Sly was unaware of the proceedings. At the moment he was mostly concerned with his attempt to board Raleigh's boat and infiltrate his operation. But if he had known how concerned Bentley and Murray were for his personal welfare, he would have appreciated it. If he also knew how much Bentley had worried himself sick about the placing of his nodes and how they would have helped Sly, he would have been touched.

But he could guess how much Bentley had wanted to help him and his endeavour to make the mission to succeed. He knew that Bentley had tried his very hardest to assist Sly in any way he could as well as constantly looking out for him in any situation. And he did appreciate it. He appreciated it very much. And he hoped Bentley would guess or know it in himself. Giving a final, silent thanks to his friends, Sly reversed his attention to the spinning blue hologram that bloomed from the node beacon before him.  
"Congratulations Sly," echoed the holographic image of Bentley's head. "Thanks to your continual skill and perseverance, you have located my second checkpoint node." The hologram spun briefly on the spot before coming around again and revealing the shape of the box turtle, giving a brief cough.

"No problem, it was a snap buddy," Sly replied with a touch of pride, "After all, I had a lot of help from you and Murray. And if it weren't for some of your mechanical genius, I wouldn't even be listening to this right now." Sly beamed forgivingly before he realised that, of course, the hologram was not going to reply back. Reddening in the face and looking slightly sheepish, Sly quietened down so as to hear the information.

"Now that you have the best dole I could uncover for the storm machine, I think it best that I briefly inform you of a few other little perks I have managed to place," continued the flickering blue projection. "I have initiated a new invention which shall be used for the first time on this mission. I have designed it so as it can assist you-hopefully it will anyway."

"I should think it will," murmured Sly pleasantly.

"This invention is something I have nicknamed the lucky horse shoe," said Bentley. "It is a device which is about the size of your open palm and is constructed from steel. It should aid your thieving opportunities as I have designed it to be light and easy to carry." Sly grinned approvingly.

"Really it is actually in the shape of a horseshoe, a play on the old saying," said Bentley, "And it is packed with my latest and most high-tech magnetic gadgetry."  
"Magnetic aye," mused Sly, "That sounds interesting in deed."

"What it does is this," said Bentley. "It has contained within it a revolutionary composition of electric micro-circuitry, which emits a magnetic pulse when activated. A small switch in the base of the device will activate it and the device is powered by a lithium battery, about the size of a pack of chewing gum."

"A lithium battery?" said Sly, "Resourceful as ever Bentley."

"Hopefully the addition of the lithium will give the device an extended operation time when it is activated," Bentley said. "I guess the device can get a maximum of six hours before the charge goes flat and it needs a new battery. Hopefully that time should be more than enough. You probably won't need to use it continuously anyway. You see, the device is meant to emit strong enough magnetic pulses that when you get close to an enemy who holds a metal weapon or there is a metal object you require out of your reach, it can attract it towards you. Likewise, if you get close enough to a concentrated group of metals when it is activated, you will be pulled towards it. Be careful when operating the device. I imagine it could help you traverse the machines beneath Raleigh's boat."

"Right on Bentley," said Sly, "Good thinking on your part-that device will surely come in handy."

"I have placed about twelve of these small devices around Raleigh's hideout for you in undisclosed locations by R.C chopper. When you come across them they should help you achieve your goals." Bentley's head rotated again before resuming speech. "Another few things I have to remind you about are that each device is identified by the metallic silver colour they give out. Also, the pulse can be strengthened or lessened depending on how powerful you need it. At full power all the time, I would guess at you getting about two hours out of a single device-this is why I have placed multiple around the boat. Unfortunately I could not disclose their locations here as it might be noticed by Raleigh's henchmen. You will just have to locate them as you need them."

"That's okay pal," said Sly, "That's what we thieves are good at. Search and find, smash and grab. It does add a bit of a challenge-nice touch."

"And one more thing," said Bentley. "Each device is compatible with the circuitry of the next. If you should manage to locate and power up more than one device at a time, the power will be doubled. Once you use up to three devices at once, the collision of the electric surge in magnetic power will cause them to glow gold. This is nothing to worry about however-this just merely means that the devices are working at peak efficiency. However, once again, I must warn you against the extreme usage of these devices as too many activated at once could cause an extreme magnetic surge which could tear apart any metal or steel. Only use these as per necessary."

"Don't stress Bentley," said Sly, "I'll remember that."

"Some other purposes these devices may serve are this," said Bentley. "At a safe voltage they can even cause you to slightly levitate over magnetic or metallic areas, which could be helpful to avoid obstacles. Likewise, as I mentioned before, they can help you remove any obstacles in your path by tearing them down. Just please try and look after the devices as they were somewhat expensive. Just bring all of them back if you can-I am hoping to reequip them with more batteries before our next mission against the Fiendish Five. They will be a valuable tool-use them wisely. You can attach them to the back of your pack to make them easy to reach."

"That will be easy," said Sly, "I'll make sure to take care of them. And having them on my pack will be really handy - I might even be able to prank a few guards, especially the guys with those throwing stars. I wish you had thought of these little miracles before Bentley, these will be simply radical!" Sly hooted and waved his cap over his head in ecstasy. "Combined with my family's skills, this will be the ultimate mission; time to go and give it to those criminals."

"Now that you know all about the devices, how I have placed them, how they work and how to use them as well as the dangers, I'll give you a brief image so you know what to pick up." Bentley's holographic head faded away to be replaced by a blue image of a small horse shoe shaped piece of metal. It looked quite ordinary and plain. After a few seconds, Bentley's head popped up again.

"You will notice that the device looks rather plain," said Bentley, "This is so that it blends in and Raleigh's men will not pick them up. You have a sharp eye and I am sure you will easily pick them up. Good luck Sly and happy hunting. Let me know about the success of the device. And remember you have always got your Binoc-u-com to communicate with us; over and out."

Bentley's image flickered out once again and in its place bloomed up the caricature of the raccoon's head. Once again it served the great purpose of being a beacon Sly could follow-he would probably even see it from the boat. It glowed through the sheets of rain like a lighthouse. Bentley had planned it well. Now there was no way he could get disorientated. With the device properly activated, it was time for Sly to get moving. He was even closer to those pages now and he was just about to infiltrate part of Raleigh's inner sanctum. He was now more excited than ever at the prospect of trying Bentley's new device out on the Fiendish Five. What would he do without his friend's ingenious little inventions?

"You clever reptile you," murmured Sly, "What would I do without you both? I'll be back for you soon, never fear." Sly stood up over the rotating image projected by the beacon and turned back towards the shimmering lights of the many layered decks, towers, cannons and turrets that sat atop the enormous boat. Hopefully no one had spotted him from the deck. He decided to get under cover as soon as possible and out of the open. Giving a final look to the ingenious node he sprinted back over to the winch. Looking the device over, he knew the mission was only going to get harder. He hitched on a determined expression and reminded himself he was set to face any of the dangers thrown at him: time to take on his nemeses for the last and final time.

The coils of the rope swayed and whistled in the strong currents of the wind as Sly yanked on the rusted winch. At first the reddened coating didn't allow the metal to move, but then there was a jangling creak of metal against wood and the winch gave away, the coils of rope suddenly spinning loose. The coils of rope begun to collect in a large spool in his hands as the winch spun out and the cogs creaked. The whole mechanism was rattling and convulsing wildly, as if it wouldn't hold, but then it gave another final groan of tired gears and the cogs grinded to a halt. Sly dropped the mound of frayed rope he had gathered at his feet and walked over to the edge of the cliff. The carved sandstone curved inwards beneath his feet before coming out again in a graceful arc and smoothly meeting the white sand at the shore. The lush greenness of the sea grass, bolstered by the frequent rain, flowed over the edge and swung off the lip of the cliff in vines, swaying in the winds.

It would be a smooth descent down to the lower platform. Luckily no jagged or protruding rocks extended from the cliff face. Only the wild winds and rain would pose any problem. Sly yanked on the old rope to make sure it was secure and then he seized the end and tossed the reel over the cliff. The trail of rope suddenly tightened and began unravelling like a snake as it was pulled over the cliff. Finally, the rope tightened and lay tightly over the cliff edge. The length of it swayed gently against the cliffs while the end just brushed the smooth sand. The winch was ready to go. The wooden gantry creaked as he stepped onto it.

Satisfied with his work, Sly gave the rope a second yank and then dropped it to the ground again. Still the cord held and lay tightly coiled. Sly raised his cane and stretched out for the hook which was suspended off the opposite end of the rope, furled over the reel. Once he let his full weight hang from the hook, the rope would lower him down to the shore of the lake as the hanging coil of rope was reeled back through the winch. He just hoped the rust on the cogs didn't jam the whole device before he was all the way down.  
He had also observed that the electrical circuits which had once operated the device were completely flat-the cords frayed and broken. The control panel had long since sparked out and not a single buzz of electricity emanated from it. There would be no interference there. Sly looped the crook of his cane over the hook. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he quickly tested his weight. The frame swayed a final time and creaked as the nails rattled in their fixtures. But just as Sly was about to plunge off of the cliff edge to the sand below, a bellowing wail of sirens tore through the night air.

#

"Ha-ha," cackled Sir Raleigh hoarsely, "At last we have got him. The Cooper boy can't escape this time. I've got him cornered!"

As he let out another laugh, you could distinctly hear a thick, southern-English-actually rather Welsh-accent on his tongue. He raised one white gloved flipper and used it to brush some dust from his large, bobbled hat as he spoke.

"Finally the five shall be rid of that thieving brat," said Raleigh, continuing his speech. "Now that my men have spotted him at the old loading bay, it will be a snap to pick him off. There is absolutely no way he can make it past any of my deck defences. Another trophy to our name-a reputation well deserved."

In celebration, Raleigh bounced over to a little polished wooden box lined with trimmed lace that sat on a mahogany side table on a doily. Daintily he searched around inside the contents of the box before extracting a chocolate coated liquorice bullet. They were his favourite and very expensive. The liquorice was the finest in England and the covertures chocolate came from the best cacao fields in Brazil. In fact, he owned half of the cacao fields in the country. Life was splendid when one had so much money at their immediate disposal.

Raleigh sighed contentedly in a rather malicious kind of way as he munched his way through a second chocolate liquorice bullet, this time covered in the finest white chocolate composed of Madagascan vanilla-again from his very own plants. With his mouth full of delicacies, Raleigh closed the mahogany box and turned back towards his great iron throne. It sat on the edge of a large pool of lightly steaming water, like a lighthouse on the cliffs of the sea. Wrought out of metals and plate-gold, it also was adorned with Raleigh's family crest, this being an ornate golden letter R.

Raleigh snarled to himself in a rather contemptuous fashion, as if the idea that his family should share in his riches was preposterous. What a thought indeed! Raleigh grunted again as he swallowed the last flecks of milky white and plonked himself heavily atop the rouge velvet cushion. From there he gazed in a smug way across the steaming pool which made up the beating heart of his most diabolical invention, the storm machine.

Around the pool stretched an expanse of piping, platforms, gantries, wires, panels and an enormous canopy window that wrapped around a one-eighty degree expanse of the blimp. A grim and continuous drizzle of sluggish, moist drops continued to pour down the double-paned surface as the clouds also continued to precipitate their contents. From his perch he could observe all the inner workings of his most brilliant creation, the very centre of the machine. There was no way the Cooper boy could reach him here, in his inner most sanctum.  
Besides, it was the place he had chosen to hidden the very articles the thief was after.

Right beneath the throne he sat upon was a small vault; titanium walled with a six-digit combination lock and within it sat a compilation of pages from the Cooper book, the Thievious Raccoonus. He would ensure maximum security was observed in every way. He even had his faithful walrus guards blocking all the ventilation ducts. You just couldn't stop progress. As he thought this, a sudden flicker came to his mind and he prodded the intercom button in the control panel on the arm of the chair that lay beside him. The speaker crackled into life and a deep, distinctly Indian mixed with Malay accent answered.

"Ah, yes Eric," droned the voice, "What do you require. I have stationed the guards all over the ship. I heard from the men that there is quite a bit of chaos down by the old dock-something to do with that Sly Cooper. Tracked you down at last has he? If so, my good man, then we had better act rather quick sharp. You know the master will not be pleased if Cooper does anything to destroy our plans. And by the way, he seems rather displeased from your last communication that Interpol have managed to become embroiled in this affair. He thinks it would be best to, how do you say, remove them from the scene." He ended the last word with a slight tone of mixed menace and fear.

This rather annoyed Raleigh and with a small snarl of contempt, jabbed the intercom button again and spoke.

"Yes, I know that all too well Marius," growled Raleigh, "The master shall not be at all pleased if Cooper so much as manages to get his hands on a single page. As for those Interpol runts, I have already decided to address that problem. I have an idea as to how we shall get rid of that meddlesome Inspector Fox for good. As I said, I am fully aware of the dangers she and the rest of those meddlesome law enforcers might pose to the master's scheme. I do not need to be reminded of that, thank you very much. Remember, Marius, it was I who hired you and me who brought you into partnership with our glorious empire."

"Of course, of course," said Marius, "I forgot my place somewhat sir-please forgive me. I was only intending to remind you of the rather precarious situation we must eradicate."

"You are forgiven," Raleigh said, slightly begrudgingly. "After all, you are quite right. Neither you nor I shall let the master down. As I was saying, I already have a scheme in place to address that problem. At the same time we may even be able to eradicate that wretched turtle and hippo, which ally their persons with Cooper. We shall kill two birds with one stone and then I believe threats to the master's will be all but destroyed."

"Ah excellent, excellent," whispered Marius over the intercom, "What might this grand plan of yours be, oh Eric?"

"It is rather simple really," drawled Raleigh. "As my new ally and General to my men, Marius, you are a key activist in my plan. Have five of my best men set out right this very night across the English Channel. Have them use my patrol boats in the lower docks. They must be at the coast of France by midnight tonight. From there they are to find their way to the covert headquarters of the Interpol agency, in Versailles I believe, and then they will assassinate Inspector Barkley. Remove that badger from the scene and Interpol will collapse-then we shall have no more difficulties from them. They have irked us once too often, for far too long. From the Intel gathered by my master, I believe that he will be the key. Have that done right this moment Marius, and do not forget my orders. We must end Barkley's life, for that is what the master asks-he is not questioned."

Ending his sentence with a taste of venom, Raleigh again flicked the dial to activate the intercom channel. When Marius replied, he sounded rather apprehensive.

"But sir," said Marius "Isn't that rather ambitious. I mean, Inspector Barkley will be covered by security at all times-rather a task for even our best men to get at him. And even so, we must still dispatch the officers who at this moment risk uncovering our hideout. How is that to be done? And anyway, I still feel that Cooper is a threat who must be dealt with also."

"Do not question my leadership Marius," Raleigh said, this time with ice in his voice. "I am fully aware of all these obstacles. In any case, my men are more than perfectly capable for such a task. It shall be completed or they will not come back here the way they left, at least not in one piece, if you get my drift. As in, they may look the way Barkley will look a few hours from now, that spanner in my machine"

Marius gulped nervously and wiped a nervous trickle of sweat of off his brow. At least, it sounded that way over the intercom.

"While they dispatch Barkley and shatter Interpol," continued the arrogant frog, "I shall send another contingent of my loyal walrus guards to deal with Miss Fox and the rest of her posse. In fact, you shall organise that right now Marius. I want them dealt with before midnight tonight. Then the only obstacle to finish off is Cooper. As soon as you have sent off my men, I am entrusting you the duty to wipe him out. Use whatever method you like, but make sure he is dead. Once you have done that I want his body bought to me. I think the master would appreciate a trophy of his final victory against the Coopers. Then we may finally be able to really see what can be done with the pages of this dratted book we are hoarding-I am not much one for reading you see."

"It shall be done sir," said Marius. "I will ensure your men are put to the job. I will also take it upon myself to ensure they succeed. Your plans will be carried out with the upmost efficiency. Then I will be happy to personally take on the pleasure of destroying Cooper-he shall be brought to you dead or on his knees. I assure you it will be done. From this moment on it means the end of the Cooper gang. Without Interpol on our consciousness, Cooper shall be but a single blip on the radar."

Marius was clearly trying to force conviction into his voice with this last line but he still sounded apprehensive behind it all. Well, that would not last long.

"Very well Marius," said Raleigh, "That is what I want. Ruthless efficiency is what the master needs. From this night, all threats will be destroyed. Get to work my friend and I assure you I will instil in you my greatest confidence. But remember, leave no stone unturned Marius. I want every one of them disposed of and all traces of this folly eradicated by tonight. Barkley, Interpol, Miss Fox and the blasted Cooper gang must all be dead. Then the Welsh authorities will have no leads on me at all. Get to work, General Aqualon. Wipe them out, all of them!"

Not waiting for any reply, Sir Raleigh twiddled the voltage dial and the line died. Sitting back contently in his ornate and rather pompous throne, he smiled happily. Everything was going his way. Interpol would be in chaos and the Cooper gang and the whole Cooper legacy would be shattered for good. His master would be pleased. Marius Aqualon would not fail him-he was a good soldier and General. Cooper would be dealt with in the hour. At last, Raleigh could say all his difficulties were dealt with-everything was going his way. Yawning in a self-indulgent way, Raleigh decided to treat himself to another dark-chocolate liquorice snap. He licked his lips as he sucked on the luscious noir chocolate from Ghana.

#

General Marius Aqualon sighed in a rather resigned way to himself. He was intending with all his fibre to make sure that Sir Raleigh's orders were to be carried out. He was only forty-eight and just retired from service in the Malaysian navy. It had been a hard path. But it had payed off; he was now in contact with one of the most powerful empires in the world. Besides, he was all too happy to assist in the destruction of Sly Cooper. Anyway, he had his own reasons to hate the Cooper family. He remembered when he had listened to his grandfather telling him of his days in the navy service. He had outshined all but one naval commander in his campaigns.

That had been a one Ernest Arthur Cooper, one of the most famous seamen of the nineteen-forties. His grandfather had just never managed to meet the standard of his naval tactics. He had respected but, of course, hated the infernal Irishman for it at the same time. General Aqualon ground his teeth in anger as he thought of this. He would have his revenge for his grandfather. He was sure of that. Cooper was about to meet his match. He would see who the real master of the sea was. He would win back his grandfather's stolen glory; it was time for Cooper to pay for the humiliation he had caused his family. He turned along the wooden deck and strode back towards his men, lined up against the wall, with the sirens at the docks ringing in his ears.

#

Captain Tusk was a rather dim man, used to taking orders. However, he drilled his men well and ensured they did not slack on their duties. Glancing up and seeing that the master's second-in-command, General Aqualon, was marching towards them, he briskly stood to attention and shouted a crisp command in husky English to his soldiers. Like clockwork, they all snapped to attention as General Aqualon sidled towards them.

"Remember boys," whispered Captain Tusk to his men, "The master says we have an important mission to complete. We must be at our best and no shirking whatsoever. We are to listen to General Aqualon and carry out his orders. Is that understood?"

All his men gave him brisk nods and then snapped their chins back as General Aqualon came and stood before them. Inspecting each of the walrus in turn, Tusk noticed that the General looked rather apprehensive and a little worse for wear. He wondered what mission that there was in store for them. The old octopus generally seemed rather surer of himself. Maybe those years in the navy had done him in after all.

"General Aqualon sir!" exclaimed Captain Tusk, "What do you command sir?"

Simultaneously, his contingent of men snapped to attention and raised their paws in a broad salute. A pleased smirk crossed the General's face. He raised a tentacle to silence them and they immediately stopped speaking.

"At ease men, at ease," said Marius Aqualon, "As you have probably guessed, you mostly Captain Tusk, Sir Raleigh has asked me to assign you an important mission. As you would also know by now, there is rather a bit of confusion down by the old loading bays. Please do not be alarmed and carry out what I tell you. I shall deal with that myself. The mission I have for you and your men is to wipe out Interpol and the rest of the Cooper gang."

The men before him gasped openly and Captain Tusk mumbled something as if just about to speak.

"Now I guess you will be apprehensive," continued Marius, "But I will let you know that I have complete confidence in all of you. The missions to be completed are these; Captain Tusk will lead four men-Williamson, Clayton, Frederick and Harrison-across the English Channel tonight, from where you are to make tracks for the Interpol headquarters in Versailles. Your assignment is to assassinate Inspector Barkley. No mistakes will be tolerated. Then, Captain Tusk, you are to send another ten of your best men to the entrance on the north side of the island. There they will dispatch Inspector Fox and the other members of the Cooper gang. I will see to Sly Cooper myself. Is that understood?"

"Very clearly sir," boomed Captain Tusk. "My men and I will set about that right now. Once I have sent my men out to the northern shores of the isle, I will take my men across the channel and the Inspector shall be dealt with before the night is out. I swear it, oh General."

"Excellent Tusk," said Marius, "Now get to work. The sooner the deeds are done and you are back here with your men, the better. Now go, I must deal with Cooper."  
He turned resolutely and marched away across the deck. A single tentacle snapped off a final salute as he disappeared down to the lower dock.  
"Right men," said Tusk, "You know what to do."

Ten men broke off from the group and, with grunts of acknowledgment to their captain, ran towards the southern side of the boat. Captain Tusk knew they were headed for the weapons armoury on the lower area of the boat. Excellent-efficiency was what he needed. Interpol didn't stand a chance at all. With that deed now fixed, Captain Tusk now turned to his remaining four men of the group. They would need to complete the most important mission ever assigned to them.

"As for us men," he said to the soldiers, "You know what we must do. And we must not fail. It is time for us to leave."

He shuddered slightly as he concluded his speech. It was a treacherous mission ahead of them, but they must not fail. He knew all too well of the consequences. With a final barking command to the walruses assembled before him, they all rose up and marched along the deck and towards the entrance way to the docks. And that night, under the cover of the clouds, a single black vessel skimmed across the English Channel, headed for one man in Versailles.

#

Over on the northern side of the island, almost three kilometres away, Carmelita suddenly heard a wailing shriek emanating off of the cliffs, as if a siren were going off. Something was wrong and she knew it. What trouble had Cooper worked himself into? She could not just sit there and let the ring-tail be at the mercy of the Fiendish Five. Glancing nervously over at her two captives, Carmelita gulped and stiffened her resolve. Her delicate bosom heaved as she breathed in heavily. Something must be done. A storm was coming: she had felt it from the beginning. Her affection for the raccoon now seemed even more important than it had been to her before. She must be prepared for the fight she knew was to come. The men needed to be ready, they all must be ready. Then the battle could be overcome. It was time to fight. She was ready to tackle anything.

"Don't worry Cooper," she said quietly, "I am here for you, and we will fight this together. Together we will overcome and survive. I promise it." She surprised herself by saying this: how could it be that she even felt this at all – he was a thief, she an inspector.

She stood up resolutely and strode over towards the men. They all glanced up expectantly as she marched towards them, all with similarly grave yet determined looks upon their faces. The mule deer, Pierre, nodded at her officially and stood to attention beside her as she stood resolutely before them all. She returned the gesture with a wan smile. They could all tell from the grim look on her face that something significant was about to occur.

#

With the infernal noise of the deck alarm ringing through his eardrums, Marius descended down onto the artillery deck. He gave a sigh and rattled off a few words in mixed Latin and Indian as he rubbed his temples. He often said things like this to his conscience between times. He felt a slight ache through his forehead which could probably be fixed with a few aspirin, a shower and some good bed rest after the night was out.

But that would have to wait, and probably for some time to. Staring about him as several burly walruses thudded about the deck, attempting and failing to get things in order; Marius noted the array of extreme weapons that lay at his disposal to wipe out Cooper. Every single piece of weaponry was aimed at the quay opposite the boat on the cliffs. And there he could see, about two hundred metres away, the solitary blue and grey figure that was Cooper himself. Marius locked his eyes on him-it was just the two of them.

Several large metal tubes, about a metre long each with a large funnel at the end, swung out over the wooden railings of the boat and hung above the calm waters below. These seemed to be military grade rocket launchers. Besides these devices there were multiple deck mounted machine guns, mounted on gantries and balconies, each of their cartridges choked with extensive reels of bullets like teeth.

Finally, multiple grapple launchers, net launchers and tear gas launchers were being mounted atop tripods that were hurriedly being scooped from below decks and thus being erected by the walruses. It all seemed at least a tad extreme for just one raccoon; Eric was not known for being conservative. But then again, he was a Cooper. Still, Marius thought, maybe the old chap was just a bit senile. He did seem a little over the edge. There was no use in promising he could return him Cooper's body at all. With all these weapons Cooper would be completely torn to shreds. He would return his remains to the frog in a matchbox. He chuckled silently to himself at his dry wit.

Bringing himself back to the present task, General Aqualon gave a brief whistle in a rather tasteless fashion and turned about to face his armoury. He wished to make himself look as imposing as possible towards his men. He thought this was rather gloriously achieved, what with his tall and elegant physique. Then there was his imperious military green uniform he wore, the lapel encrusted in about twenty pins and medals he had succeeded in winning during his navy days. Then he sported a stiffly starched collar with a severe black tie, as well as a handkerchief, ironed within an inch of its life, that poked out of his right breast pocket. He also wore a pair of severely cut, black nylon type pants secured by a belt made from genuine Scottish leather.

Four of his bluish tentacles snaked out of the pants and lay pointedly on the deck. His other four tentacles protruded fourth from his shirt sleeves, tailor cut for him with four arms, allowing him to stroll back and forth with ease. Besides his very minute pencil moustache, he finished off his appearance with an official officer's cap, flat topped with a brim of black polished leather. One final detail was that he also sported four scabbards at his belt, two on each side. Each of these vessels nursed an elongated and venomous looking blade; one for each tentacle. He was the perfect walking arsenal in himself. He was glad he had kept his old naval uniform-it reminded him of his true status.

Raising a tentacle to steady the guards at the ready, General Aqualon silently praised the rain continuously pouring from the darkened sky. He had never liked the dry; it made him feel awfully parched and thirst ridden. This place, where there was water all around, was the form of location he liked. Keeping his arm up for another split second, Marius had another final thought as he flung it down; "Goodbye Cooper." There was a shrieking of shrapnel fire.

As the siren continued to belt outs its infernal blaring call, the heavy torrential rain continued to pound down on Sly as he gazed defiantly towards his enemies. This was really just what he needed, in a sarcastic way of course. With such a distraction in his way it was looking unlikely as to if he would ever be able to get back to his friends and free them, besides retrieving what remnants of his family's book were stored there.

Then there was still a potential skirmish with Carmelita to sort out. He cursed to himself in French and then again in English. Being French by his mother and possibly English by his father, Sly often did this, and often quite involuntarily. But it was no time at all to worry about his family history; he had already worked himself into yet another scrap indeed. But just as he realised what was going on, a tremendous crackling and rumbling of gunfire was heard atop the deck of the boat and, a few moments later, several bullets and shrapnel fragments soared over his head. Narrowly ducking down and flattening himself to the grass, Sly felt several hairs part company with the back of his scalp.

Quickly raising his head again, Sly was just in time to see a fair sized rocket, a severe looking colour of red, come thundering towards him with a trail of flame blasting from behind it. Giving a second, strangled yell, Sly pivoted himself over a bush and rolled down the embankment, coming to rest beside the control panel for the crane pulley. Again raising himself to his knees, Sly was just in time to see a large laurel bush that had been behind him burst into flames and fall to ashes as the rocket exploded.

His heart thundering loudly, and the sound of what seemed like a one-hundred and twenty piece orchestra thundering in his ears, Sly forced himself to his feet as a smaller green rocket hurled itself at him from across the water and erupted. A faintly green substance issued from it and floated down towards him as he ducked aside to avoid a second hail of blazing machine gun fire. His heart again pounding, and he himself panting like a demented steam engine, Sly glanced in shock at the green gas rapidly rolling towards him.

"Oh no," said Sly in a strangled cry, "Tear gas, not that again. Bentley got enough of that horrid stuff in Bogota." He felt his eyes start to water as the first wisps of cloud began to descend upon him.

Desperately, Sly raced forward and slammed his fist onto the control panel, which suddenly, surprisingly, blazed into life. A rusted humming began to issue from the winch before Sly realised he had just activated the crane mechanism. But the whole panel was beginning to shake and spark even now, as if it could not hold the pressure building within its worn circuits. But that worry was put an end to as several more rounds of shrapnel and bullets completely obliterated the panel surface. Seeing the hook on the winch swing out on the rusted metal arm, beginning to drop, Sly rushed for it, realising the mechanism had lost complete control. As he lunged and struck out for the rapidly disappearing hook with his cane, Sly was thankful had just done so because a truly enormous rocket had just propelled itself away from the deck and slammed headlong into the control box.

A tremendous roaring and tearing of tortured metal sounded as the cliff edge crumbled and blocks of limestone and granite thundered down the cliff and rained into the lagoon. The wooden platform had buckled and now splintered under Sly's feet as he lunged and it now tore itself free of the cliff and tumbled along with the mixture of earth and stone into the water several metres below. As for the control box, it had erupted in a plume of blaring orange light and torn itself apart in another ball of fire. The shrapnel realised from the exploding rocket now rained down upon Sly as he tumbled all but freely down to the sandy shore. The worst of it he had just realised; the crane arm had been torn free and the rope fell limp in his hands as it came uncoiled and fell past him to slither to the sand beneath.

The hook soared through the sky and struck a moss covered boulder on the beach with a resounding clang, which echoed off the cliffs, before slipping beneath the water to join the wreckage. Sly had just enough time to glance above him and see the orange mushroom cloud of flame from the control box explosion dissipate and blow away into the night sky, along with the gas, and reveal the smoking wreckage. Heaving a brief and suddenly strangled sigh, sly gaped in horror as he saw the bank rush up to met him. He hit the sand, stones and gravel with a gut-wrenching thud and the fragments of metal and wood rained down about him.

Raising his head with a pained movement, Sly felt an awkward pain suddenly sear in his left ankle. He must have landed on it awkwardly after his fall and now it hurt ever so slightly as he raised himself up and stood upon it to face his path. The floating trail of debris that would allow him entry to the enormous vessel lay before him now. But Sly was still aware of the several weapons even now reversing themselves to aim at him, simultaneously aware of his escape from the explosion. He threw himself with all his might behind a large boulder just as another awful hail of fire rained upon the beach and thudded and pinged off the sand covered shore.

As it was, a single bullet skimmed over the surface of the boulder and buried itself, with a painful jarring, into Sly's shoulder. He cried out in pain as he fell backwards and another bullet sailed past and sliced across his thin nose, causing a thin trickle of deep red blood to run down his cheeks and splash onto the ground. At the same time a descent trickle of blood was slowly oozing down his right shoulder from the first wound. With his teeth gritted and his eyes narrowed, Sly wrenched the bullet from his wound and tossed it into the water. The cut seared, but Sly managed to swallow down the pain and stem both wounds with sections torn from his handkerchief, which Bentley had made him take. He briefly mimed giving a-hundred thanks before he turned to face his attackers.

Edging forward to face his unseen foes, Sly felt his foot bump up against a small, hard piece of cold metal. He glanced downwards to see a small horse-shoe shaped device inlaid with bolts resting in a niche amongst the rocks. The raccoon's head logo was stamped upon it. Quickly he bent down and scooped up the small device. Flipping it over he noticed a single dial and metre that seemingly measured electric pulses, on the reverse side. It appeared from the outset to be one of Bentley's magnetic lucky horse-shoe devices; he pocketed it in his leg satchel. It would come in useful later. But as he stood up from behind his hiding place, he forgot the immediate peril he was in. A final rocket soared overhead and smashed with a colossal crash into the cliffs of granite and limestone. Rocks rained down in a cascade upon the spot Sly was standing. A ceaseless shower of gun fire rained around him as he lunged desperately forwards and plunged into the shallow water.

Immediately Sly remembered his lack of swimming abilities and with a choking gasp sank beneath the surface. The water foamed as several bullets pitched themselves through the clear surface and sank to the bottom. A single scrap of black material from Sly's blindfold drifted to the surface on its own. As for Sly, he was nowhere to be seen at all.

From the deck of the ship, General Aqualon gave a satisfied nod. His men stopped firing and the noise ceased. Giving a final sweep of the wreckage, Marius grunted satisfactorily; his mission had indeed been completed. For all practical purposes, now, Sly Cooper was dead.

#

Carmelita's head jerked up suddenly. Her keen ears had just heard a great echoing racket of gunfire, which had ceased shortly after it had begun. This had followed the blaring sirens she had heard earlier. What had become of Cooper? She could not know how to take this: the possibility that the ring-tail was dead. What would her life be like without the raccoon? This was even more incomprehensible than the thousands of other questions buzzing around in her head. But she did not know for sure – there was still the chance, the chance he was alive.

There had to be a chance. As much as a charlatan he might be, - even arrogant - Cooper did not deserve to die. To be gunned down by some organised crime figure. Not if she had anything to do with it. And she would find out. She would find Cooper. A single unbidden tear trickled down her check. She felt her heart throbbing in her chest, as if with more life than before. She would find Sly Cooper. As incomprehensible as it was, she knew this for certain. She would know: she had chosen this path for herself. Would her parents, though dead, have been proud? No one could say.

Her heart told her it was the right thing to do.

**This is Chapter 10 - Chapter 7 of 13 in Part 2 of 6.  
****What will happen next - General Aqualon now thinks Sly is dead and he maybe just about the only one capable of halting Raleigh's terror.  
****Carmelita is not about to give up on the raccoon but greater obstacles are ahead. What part in all this will Bentley and Murray play.  
****Higgins' greater role is yet to be made apparent...  
****As always, I hope you enjoyed reading the story. More chapters are in the works soon...**


	12. Chapter 11 - Bronwyn and Barkley

**Chapter Eleven: Bronwyn and Barkley.**

**Author's Note: This chapter is a complete fabrication in that all of its events are made-up. This is a whole chapter which I created to expand the story, so the game is not just being retold. For this chapter only - in Part 2 - it is not focused on the events in Wales.**

He clasped the leather cap tensely in his hands. Brushing a trickle of chilling sweat away from his brow, Marius coughed into an embroidered handkerchief he swept from his breast pocket and straightened up. Nervously returning the cap to his head he rose from the place where he sat and strode with a deliberate attempt at defiance towards the entrance. At a nod from one of the two fearsome looking guards by it, he returned the cloth to his pocket and entered the chamber.

Beyond the opening lay the enormous, steaming pull of water he had expected to see. The pipes and mechanisms hung about the walls in a crazy lopsided way which made him think of a mad scientist's laboratory. But then, Sir Raleigh really was a form of mad scientist anyhow. Through the tremendous window at the head of the blimp he could see the dark clouds and torrential rain repeatedly spattering down on the glass. As the gantry he was walking upon took him around the pool's edge, and away from the windows, he turned his attention to the back wall of the chamber.

At the heart of the storm machine stood an ornate throne between two enormous cooling fans. Beneath the slowly droning hum of the fan blades spinning he could hear a faint inner whirring of the machine, as if it where some monstrous predator. But the real monster, the father of the diabolical creation, sat squat and smug upon the throne. Sir Raleigh slowly turned his gaze, as if Marius weren't really worth his attention, and fixed his eyes upon the general. His right flipper extended itself in a lazy fashion and rummaged around in a box beside it, on a lace poof, before extracting a chocolate and delicately placing it on its master's tongue. With a slurping crunch he sucked it in and swallowed it. Then Raleigh raised himself slowly and deliberately, walking with a hard glare towards Marius. Although he was but four feet to Marius's six-foot three, there was a cold and condescending intimidation that came from him.

"So – so indeed," whispered Raleigh in a chilling and deadly hiss, "Have you obliterated Cooper Marius? Is he squashed, pulverised, mashed and completely flattened? Tell me that or suffer my, my displeasure." He hissed again and this time there was a definite note of fear and menace in his voice.

"It – it is done, Sir," Marius stuttered, scared of catching his master's glance, "I have seen to it personally. The last my men and I saw of Cooper he had sunk into the lagoon. He should be believed done and gone I think. He has appeared to, ah, drowned." Shaking, he clenched and unclenched his tentacles. He saw the dark grimace form of Eric's face.

"Do you know what this means?" seethed Raleigh in a rising passion, "The Cooper boy is not necessarily dead! That raccoon is slyer than you know, General Aqualon, and he is a real threat to all of us. I would not like to tell the founder that we have been bested again by a Cooper. This information displeases me greatly."

"I am sure that he is out of the way for a good time, time enough for us to carry out any of our other plans." Marius gabbled shrilly and quickly, letting the words tumble out of his mouth in an effort to deflect his fear. "It is likely my men will have wiped the floor with Barkley long before Cooper can become involved again. Not to mention that Inspector Fox along with Interpol and the remaining members of the Cooper gang will be gotten rid of very soon – I see no real problem." He forced out he last words in a brave attempt to sound more confident than he actually felt.

"Fool – idiot!" screeched Raleigh, going purple in the face with rage. "Your stupidity surprises me greatly. I would hate to have you disappoint me further. I trust your men Marius but I am not so sure about my remaining faith in you. I would hate for such a loyal servant to disappoint me once more. It would be a shame to lose you. You wouldn't want that, would you Marius. My master cannot have incompetent servants at his command." He shot a second look of venom at General Aqualon, whose knees began to knock violently.

"Oh, of course not," stuttered Marius, sweat pouring like a veil upon his face, "I pride myself as one of your most loyal henchmen. I do not wish to disappoint. I will initiate anything more necessary to track down Cooper. Just give your command and it shall be carried out." Suddenly he let out a gasp of strained pain as something sharply caught him about the right cheek and jowl. Forcing his eyelids open he saw Sir Raleigh with a single glove clenched in his fist. He raised a tentacle to feel what seemed to be a raw and red patch where the glove had struck him. Then he cried out with another grunt of agony as the glove caught him again like a whip on his left cheek. Feeling tears attempting to well up to the surface, he stumbled backwards and fell to his knees.

"I think not Marius," Raleigh replied, in a deadly whisper, "Your incompetence has displeased my too greatly. I feel such a job must be put into my own hands. You have only had a small taste of my wrath and I do not wish to fully exercise my anger. I think that the Cooper boy shall come to me before the night is out – if he is still alive that is. Then I shall deal with him personally and he will feel my displeasure." Raleigh grinned devilishly to himself and turned away, not saying another word to the general, who lay whimpering on the floor, small rivulets running from the corners of his eyes.

Quickly, however, he picked himself up, taking this as a sign of dismissal and turned to leave. As he was about to stride swiftly from the room, a sharp call turned him back.

"A final word Marius," drawled Raleigh, "The master will not take kindly to this mistake. If he is to know about it, be sure to realise that you are to blame. This empire, criminal empire, we have built will stand and nothing will block its way. Nothing, not even you, not Cooper! That must be understood. My master's ambitions are too great to be stifled. Remember that and act by it –goodnight." Finishing in a deliciously sadistic tone, Raleigh left the room.

"Right then," mumbled General Aqualon to himself, "I must make sure these orders are carried out. My men must not fail. I will do everything I can to destroy Interpol – it must not fail or..." His voice trailed away, shaking with fear. He knew all too well what would happen to him if he failed again. What mess had he worked himself into? But this was his life and he must follow the path that had been laid out for him. He could not change that. He walked swiftly from the room and out into the rain.  
**  
Versailles, France: 9:59 PM.**

Barkley stood at the window and sighed deeply, staring out through the rain veiled darkness. From the dim light of the street lamps he could just see the marble forecourt, lovingly preened hedges and symmetrical garden beds that adorned the headquarters. Beyond the forecourt stood the high stone and marble wall, over which he could just make out the gardens and regal buildings of Versailles. Somewhere, many kilometres away he thought, was Inspector Fox and her crew of officers; battling it out against the menace of the Fiendish Five. He had to admit that the obstacles were stacked against them.

Dangerous criminals were on the loose and Cooper was nowhere to be seen. Things were only becoming more twisted and haphazard by the minute - criminals, rogues and ruffians, the lot of them causing a fine mess. Rubbing his aching temple, Barkley turned and shuffled over to his desk, where he scooped up some aspirin and gulped them down with water. It was only a matter of time before the media became involved.

A thought striking him, the Inspector dragged out a draw of his filing cabinet and extracted two manila folders. He slid the draw shut with a puff of dust and slumped into his desk chair, the leather cushion sagging as he did so. One folder he placed on the desk while the other he flicked open and began to read.

The contents of the file bore many scattered photographs, cuttings, newspaper clips and assorted notes. Shoving many of these aside Barkley found what he was looking for. 'The Cooper Gang' - 'Strictly Confidential', read the enclosed leaflet. He rummaged about and found a water-marked photograph. 'Murray, other names unknown, known member of the Cooper Gang, a notorious character', read the caption. Below that some scribbled notes read: Murray was believed to have attended the Happy Camper orphanage. Here he met the infamous Sly Cooper and Bentley, other names not known.

The orphanage was run by a Miss Agatha Puffin, probably Dutch by origin. Murray's own origins are unknown, though his proper name suggests relatives in the U.S.A or Australia. Other details include his boyhood job as a pizza delivery person, where he may have gained his skills for racing and driving. Murray is known for his proficiency with most vehicles, often seen at the wheel of the iconic Cooper van. His parents were also skilled competitive race car drivers. Little else do we know about this character.

Miscellaneous details about their childhoods are as follows: Cooper ended up at the orphanage due to the death of his parents – The Fiendish Five believed responsible. It is not quite clear at exactly what time or age he arrived there. Murray is believed to have been placed in the orphanage by government care, also a subsequent event of his parent's death. It is unknown who was targeting his parents or why. Hazy records claim that Bentley was found on the steps of the orphanage as a baby, in a basket, by Miss Puffin, where he was likely placed by his parents before their untimely disappearances. Reasons for this are unknown and may extend to poor living conditions and lack of money to properly raise a child.

These three met at the age of around four or five years and made a reputation for themselves as competent thieves when they made off with Miss Puffin's cookie jar. This is reputed to be the first ever heist by the Cooper Gang and is infamously regarded in Interpol history. All three boys were believed to display loving, if somewhat cheeky, natures while they were at orphanage and at school.

Barkley snorted and glanced further down the page. Here the file read: Bentley, other names unknown, grew up in the orphanage alongside his fellow gang members. It is only known that while at school he demonstrated great skill with technology and left-handed fencing. Sources remain uncertain but his father may have been the renowned inventor Sir Nigel Charles McShellson. Sir Nigel has not been seen since 1997, when it is believed that he became involved in a skirmish with original ally Brendan Stringer. Stringer himself disappeared at this time and is believed to be in hiding somewhere in Russia.

The invention they had worked on, only known as the Spear-Head, has gone missing and no clues to its whereabouts remain today. It is possible that the device was stolen by the Vortex, a criminal syndicate operated by Stringer, or that Sir Nigel destroyed it. Either way, the device appears to have vanished. The current whereabouts of his mother remain unknown, who may have been a Mrs Laura Wise-turtle, while his father may be dead or in hiding. Stringer may be attempting to locate Nigel's son for the location of the machine. He was last sighted in 2008, somewhere on the Svalbard Islands, Norway. Other information is pending.

Barkley stifled a sniffle and tucked the papers back into their pocket. Quickly he dropped the folder back into the draw and reached for the other atop his desk. He need read no further – it was all proving too much for him. The Cooper Gang might be a set of vagabonds, but he had to admit they had come from hard times. He knew all too well of the bloody Cooper family history, spattering its way across thousands of blood-stained pages of history. He knew there was more to this than he guessed; something bigger, far bigger than he knew. Cooper was not in this for riches: there was something else he sought, something that extended far beyond himself, his friends or even Interpol. Something that would create a ripple in the world he knew - something close to his heart. He just didn't know what.

As he fell to pondering he thought of Carmelita. The poor girl, only young at heart, had gotten tangled up in this too early. He felt regretful at the thought of sending her out into such danger. She had been enthusiastic – but had he done the right thing? Even he could not answer his own question. Still, he thought, Higgins was with her and he was reliable. Everything would be done to ensure the success of the mission. The more he thought about it the more he felt sure of himself. She had proved herself; it was time for her to prove that to him. He was confident of his decision now. After all she had retrieved that legacy all those years ago. There was more to her than he cared to admit. Grinning satisfactorily, Barkley flipped open the second document and glanced at the single document inside.

Just this morning the paper had been placed on his desk and he had not yet read it. Unclipping the crisp sheet he glanced at the brief type with an air of contempt. The document read:

_Dear Sir, I would humbly request time with you for an interview. I would only need a few minutes. My paper has requested that I gain this interview with you as readers are clamouring for information on the Cooper and Fiendish Five case. We believe this information will increase newspaper sales by 40%. Also we hope to alert the world to the dangers posed by these infamous criminals. I thank you for your time and co-operation, yours sincerely, Hermione Jane Neyla – reporter for the Eiffel Gazette._

Barkley snorted with disgust and slammed the file shut. This woman seemed like a nice enough girl but too naive to really be involved in Interpol affairs. He would give the interview, but restrict his information. Barkley knew he could not have the case all over France by means of the Saturday paper. Just to think of how many French people might glance down at the headlines over a croissant to read that – the thought was ridiculous. Glancing at his wristwatch Barkley yanked his collar tight and sat up, awaiting the reporter's arrival. He jumped suddenly and jerked, letting the file fall back into the draw, as someone at his office door knocked and entered. The ashtray went flying as he lurched forwards.

Quickly hoisting himself out of his chair, Inspector Barkley strode smartly across the graying carpet and made to greet the one who had entered. Although he had not been able to tell who it was, he quickly introduced himself in a formal fashion.

"Bonjour, I mean, bonsoir mademoiselle," said Barkley, stumbling over his words in haste. "I am Inspector Jean Augustus Barkley – it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." The figure in shadow rocked, as if with a brief giggle or laugh, before emerging and revealing Barkley's mistake. It was not the reporter at all but Captain Higgins, having come to deliver anther folder. Recovering herself, she replied to the embarrassed and bewildered badger.

"I am sorry Inspector," she replied with a crisp English accent, "I should have made myself more apparent when I entered. I have just come to make you aware that the reporter shall arrive in five minutes time. Also I have this new file for your cabinets." She handed the document to him. "I apologise for the confusion." Barkley nodded in acknowledgement and quickly stowed the paper away. He turned back to the captain.

"No need to worry Bronwyn," whispered Barkley, "I did make the same mistake. I also apologise." He hung his head sheepishly while glancing at her nameplate: it read Bronwyn Elizabeth Higgins, boldly embossed as such. Briefly he thought of her brother, somewhere in the depths of the Welsh countryside, before he jolted with a start. Only recently had Sergeant Higgins known of his sister. Coincidently enough she had been placed in the same orphanage as the Cooper Gang for her childhood. It was a funny co-incidence he thought. Maybe it was meant to be. A polite cough awoke him a second time.

"Ah Inspector?" whispered Bronwyn, "Are you feeling all right? You were appearing a little misty eyed for a moment there."

"Oh, excuse me," muttered Barkley softly, "I was just, ah, thinking about the case. What a right mess it has become. And Inspector Fox right in the thick of it – what was I thinking? Sending out a junior officer into such a dangerous field – thieves, vagabonds and the whole bleeding lot – what is I to do? I fear I am lacking as a proper mentor."

"I should think not sir," replied Bronwyn, "Miss Fox is more than eager to prove herself. I think you have made a valid decision putting this case into her hands. She is more than capable from what my brother has told me. Rumours also abound that she and Cooper are quite close in a way –almost flirtatious at times."

"Yes indeed," Barkley roared heartily, "My men love to spread fanciful stories where she is concerned. I would hardly be surprised. Oh well, that is that and all. I just hope that this Miss Neyla is not going to nose around too much – this case is already taking up enough of our energy as it is. Until the squad returns from Wales we shall not have a concrete update. I also have a rather suspicious feeling that these criminals are not going to leave us un-checked. We may become a target of displeasure as a result of Carmelita's involvement."

"Very good Inspector," said Bronwyn, when he had finished, "I shall go and see to the reporter right now - I shall show her in if you like. I believe she has also brought along a cameraman, so that the interview may be taped for whatever purpose."

"Oh yes, thankyou - please do," said Barkley, "That would be most pleasing if you would Bronwyn. I already have enough papers to deal with in these cabinets." He jabbed a finger at the cabinets by the wall and they simultaneously burst open, spilling papers everywhere. "I guess you see what I mean."

"Quite so indeed sir," tittered the captain, "I can see that they are full to bursting – well, they already have." She paused for a moment, glancing at a fly on the ceiling, and then went on. "Sorry to add to your load but just before I go I had better give you this."

She reached over the desk and handed him a sheaf of paper. Barkley accepted it with resigned thanks, quickly rifling through the contents.  
"It's a list of the top criminals known to us right now, I believe," she said. "I thought that it may be helpful in your investigations."

The Inspector glanced down the neatly typed list and glimpsed such names as 'Jim McSweeney', 'Xavier Night' and 'Edward Lectric – alias Electro-Borg". He grunted approvingly and dropped it onto his already over-flowing in tray. Several more documents fluttered down to the carpet at his feet.

"Very good Bronwyn," Barkley said, reaching for a cigar, "Bring them in and get it over with. I need some good sleep and a few aspirin tonight. All this worrying is quite doing my head. But remember, be on your guard; we never know what may happen now. Be on the alert during this case."

"Right you are Inspector," she replied in a complimentary fashion, "I shall remain on my guard for you at all times. Goodnight sir and get some rest while you can – I think you will need it." Her navy blue skirt rustled slightly as she strode over the carpet to the door. Just as she was opening it she stopped to brush a lock of her long blond hair out of her eyes. Quickly adjusting her cap and then primping the uniform over her blouse, she left the room with a small smile and the door closed, making a soft thump.

Barkley sat back again in his desk chair and sighed. He raised the cigar in his left fist, forgot that it was not lit, briefly scrabbled around the desk for his lighter, then gave up and tossed it down in a draw. By all his relatives in Germany he would not have guessed his life in the service to be so exciting. When he had joined up it sounded all plain dull. Still, if Carmelita was to take his place some day, maybe then it wouldn't be quite as so any more. He turned to the door and waited.

#

Hermione Jane Neyla was walking elegantly and briskly up the well-lit corridor of Interpol headquarters. On either side of her were lamps that glowed with bright yellow light, drab but pretty little vases of impatiens and the occasional mahogany side table. Various pictures lined the walls, opposite of which one could view the French night-life as it went about its business on the pavement outside. It had its charm, though being rather plain.

Smartly smoothing and primping her crisp grey suit she pulled on the collar of her blouse and briefly adjusted her skirts; for fear that she should not look professional. Her dark brown hair, which she wore in a tight bun, sat atop her head like a great blossom. Hastily she pushed her glasses up her nose, tucking the notebook she carried back into her jacket pocket, and turned to her camera man who was following closely behind.

Looking somewhat unshaven and dishevelled, next to the prim and proper tigress before him, he nervously fumbled the camera he held and then stabilized it on his shoulder. She flicked her long, stripped tail in a girlish kind of way and smiled at him. This prompted him to drop the camera again and he fell to the ground, scrabbling to grab it up. Having retrieved the pieces from the floor he rose up again and faced her. Looking at the old bear anyone would think Neyla had picked him up at the local fair. But then Donald was that kind of person. She prompted him with a wave and they moved on.

"Oh please do come on Mr Draper," she said to the lagging cameraman, "We shan't want to be late for our interview with Inspector Barkley. If I get this information I think it should make the Eiffel's front page! How would that look on tomorrow mornings gazette? Our readers shall be enthralled." She speed up and then stopped again. "I just love this job – getting news to people. It's such an invigorating experience don't you think? Now pick up your feet Donald, we have two more floors before we reach the office."

"Yes madam," replied Mr Draper in a monotone, "I quite understand what you, ah, mean. By the way, I think we were meant to meet some officer from Barkley's squad were we not? To come and, ah, guide us where we need to go." He finished this short and unsure speech with a scratch of his head. Neyla glanced at him with a small sigh.

"Of course someone is going to meet us," she boomed indignantly, "I mean, this is front page news. The capture of Sly Cooper, the Fiendish Five – everything a reader loves to get their eyes on. Who wouldn't be teething at the bite to sink into it? And maybe if we do this one well, I shall be able to continue following this story; oh, how very exciting." She gave a little shriek and skipped further up the corridor.

"Yessss, very exciting," replied Donald with a sardonic hiss, "Just what I love best."

"Of course you do," said Neyla, "Everyone just loves a good story."

With a second sigh from her cameraman, the pair continued up the corridor towards Barkley's office. Neyla was in such a flurry that both of them failed to notice the menacing shadows coming up from behind them.

Suddenly she felt a crack of something hard and cold over her head and she fell, crumpling to the floor. Another grunt told her that Donald had also been hit in the same manner. Although she remained conscious, little yellow spots danced before her eyes as she saw heavy feet and great hulking bodies rush by her to the staircase. Unable to make out who or what they were, Neyla gasped in alarm as she saw the direction in which they were headed. Wobbling slightly on her feet Neyla pushed herself up, dragging Donald with the camera up beside her, seeing as the characters had seemingly vanished up to the next floor. Heads still rather sore, both of them quietly followed the disappearing figures.

#

Two floors above, Bronwyn stopped to listen as she heard the faint crack and then thundering of footsteps below her. In some alarm she raced over to the staircase and peered down. Large shadows wavered against the peeling wallpaper, making their way up the stairs with a great din of clanging. Miming a gasp of shock she turned on her heels and sped back down the corridor. There was no sign of the reporter, and she had no idea what had made the cracking sound, but that would have to wait: it seemed to her that someone was in danger.

And that someone could be the Inspector, just as he had predicted. Something strange was indeed going on. As she turned a corner, the door of the office again in sight, she flinched as the resounding noise of a gunshot whistled over her head and a vase opposite her smashed, raining porcelain onto the carpet. Someone meant business.

#

"I wonder what has become of Bronwyn," Barkley said out loud, speaking to his empty office. "It has been at least five minutes now; and where is that reporter? Surely she must realise that I don't have all night! There are more important things to occupy my mind; what a charade indeed!"

Then, as if to drive the point home, there echoed a loud bang and the Inspector, caught completely unawares, toppled backwards off his chair and feel with a thud against the wallpaper. The office door burst open like a cork and Captain Higgins rushed in, her chest heaving with tremendous gasps. Without stopping to explain she whipped around and slammed the door, stuffing the ring of keys into the lock and driving it home. Wrenching these back out of the lock she flung them down on the desk as she approached.

"Inspector," she gasped out, panting like a steam engine, "Someone is downstairs and they are definitely armed. I have not seen Miss Neyla anywhere since our meeting, but I fear the worst. I narrowly escaped gunfire myself and there were also suspicious sounds coming from the first floor. Someone is probably going to force entry."

Picking himself up from the floor, Inspector Barkley goggled and then rasped a reply, while flinging aside an inkwell he had sat on. "Someone – downstairs?" he said, "But who and why - and what suspicious noises? That silly girl from the newspaper is now just a liability to us, another problem I do not need. Be fleet Higgins: arm yourself and be ready to fight. For all my years in the service, forty-three to be exact, I know how to deal with thugs." He brushed off his tartan coloured tie and re-hooked a suspender that had come loose from his tweed trousers. Then he slid aside some documents on the desk and pressed down on the wooden surface.

Immediately a panel popped up and a hidden compartment was revealed. Barkley put his hand into it and removed a metallic pistol and holster. Slinging the holster over his shoulder he slid the compartment shut and crouched beside his chair. Waving to her with one hand he signalled for Bronwyn to join him beside the desk. She also crouched down.

"What is the plan Inspector?" she whispered carefully, "They sound like big brutes and we may not be able to fight our way out. Whoever sent them seems pretty well determined to have us finished off for good! This could be extremely risky."

"I am well acquainted with risk," replied Barkley, "And we can give it a jolly good try if necessary. I am head of this department and I will not go down without a fight! Someone needs to show these criminal types that we are here to carry out the law – everyday and always. The Fiendish Five, for that is who I believe responsible, is not going to win that easily."

"Inspirational as usual sir," Bronwyn said admiringly, "It is not much of a wonder that you are in charge. I will fight alongside you the whole way!"

Barkley had slid a small cardboard box from his pocket and used its contents to load his weapon. Flicking his pistol shut with a click, he turned back to her. "Thank you for your loyalty," he said gravely, "I am most appreciative: now it is time to put that to the test. Get ready; I think I hear someone coming."

Then, seconds later, a roaring and tearing sound of chattering gunfire ricocheted off of the walls and down the corridor. The frosted glass panes in the door misted up and ceased to exist as a series of bullet holes turned the whole thing into something like a Swiss cheese. The wood creaked and groaned as heavy bodies flung themselves against it and the hinges began to twist. Then a great fist slammed into the door and it gave away completely, crumpling to the floor with a resounding tinkle of glass. Two huge men, stomping right over the remains of the door, came thundering into the room. Bronwyn and Barkley peeped cautiously over the in-tray and saw that one of them cradled a semi-automatic machine gun, the barrel still smoking.

The other, a great broad-shouldered brute, had just plucked an evil looking pistol from a concealed holster. A knife glistened in his other hand. Both of them appeared to be like walruses. Tensing, Barkley watched as one of them advanced.

"Come on out Barkley," jeered the one holding the machine gun, "We just want to make this quick and clean and then we is getting out of here. Well, maybe we'll play with you a bit first." He sniggered stupidly and revealed that, besides having less than average grammar, he was a thick-headed lug with only about two neurons to rub together. Good, thought Barkley, this will make things easier. Bronwyn shifted beside him.

"That is right it is," wheezed his companion with the knife, "We is just here for a bit of a friendly get-together and then we is leaving sharpish. Only you won't be – permanent like see?" He too giggled and the wheeze to his voice suggested he smoked heavily. Another Einstein of the pack thought Barkley.|

"Enough of these stupid games," roared the first thug, "I is getting impatient. We knows you are in here Barkley; now come crawling out before I am shooting up the whole place with me beauty." He patted the smoking weapon as if it were some kind of cuddly pet.

"Yeah, that's right, Interpol scum," echoed the knife carrying thug, "With that there weapon he can put more holes in you than the Titanic. We is carrying out orders from Sir Raleigh see, so we is not going to be failing at our mission now are we?" He roared heartily before his companion thumped him on the head with the butt of the gun.

"Sir Raleigh?" exclaimed Bronwyn in suppressed shock, "What is going on here? Who is this person that they speak of?"

Barkley stirred in grim confirmation. "I thought as much," He whispered, "The Fiendish Five are out to get us and these thugs are here to wipe us out for good. Once we are gone little resistance stands between those maniacs and a total criminal empire. Carmelita is in extreme danger; we must make sure to do something! Cooper is likely on the receiving end of this madness too – for now, we must understand each other's motives." As he finished he raised his own weapon behind him and crouched, ready to strike.

"I fear the worst now," said Bronwyn, leaning over to Barkley, "Unlike us these brutes are ready to do just about anything. This will not be a clean fight."

"Almost certainly," agreed Barkley knowingly.

"Fool – you great bloody idiot," roared the first thug to his companion, "You is not supposed to be saying things about Sir Raleigh see? We is keeping these things a secret in case we is failing in our mission." He paused and checked himself momentarily. "Not that that is likely to be happening now, is it worms?" Still crouching behind the desk the two officers heard an indignant retort from the thug's companion as he finished jeering at them.

"I don't like you hitting me Clayton," whined the knife wielding thug, "Captain Tusk is saying it is not orderly to be hitting each other I thinks. You is not following orders properly I would say. I demand you be respecting me Clayton – see?"

There was a second jarring thud as the one called Clayton brought his weapon crashing down for a second time on Frederick's cranium. Frederick gave a second yelp and hopped around madly on one foot. The pair of them seemed completely inept at achieving anything whatsoever. Barkley was just registering a distant thumping sound of footsteps outside the office, nudging Bronwyn beside him, when Clayton spoke again.

"Right; that is enough of this," he bawled incoherently, "We is finishing this off nice and pretty like – no games anymore. Prepare to eat lead Barkley!" Smirking maliciously he raised the machine gun towards the desk and prepared to fire. At once Bronwyn stood up defiantly and turned to face the brutes.

"Right – this will be ending here and now," she said determinedly, "But not the way you think it will. I am not about to be shot up by a great lug who cannot even aim properly." She smiled satisfactorily as the grin on Clayton's face sank and dissolved.

"Hey looks at this Clayton," Frederick gasped in surprise, a stubby finger pointing at Bronwyn, "She is a woman: she definitely isn't Barkley. Are we making a mistake or something?"

"Of course not you fool," spat Clayton, "Barkley must be there hiding behind the desk there. Come on out cowardly scum or I am filling your lovely lady full of holes." He raised the barrel to point directly into Bronwyn's chest.

"I think not," replied Barkley, "I would like to see you try."

"Hey, you're right Clayton," exclaimed Frederick, "He is down there."

"Of course I is down here," Barkley said, angrily mocking Frederick, "Come and have a go if you like."

"He asked for it Clayton, let's get him and his lovely lady; we'll fill them both full of holes." The pair of them laughed stupidly and advanced forward.

Then with a great groan of effort, Barkley shoved his feet forward and the desk toppled over, forming a solid barrier between the two pairs. It made a loud thud and papers flew every which way, flustering Frederick and Clayton who roared in fury. Barkley sprang up and wrenched his holster free, dropping it to the floor, clasping the loaded pistol in hand. At the same time Bronwyn, who was still on her feet, plunged her hand inside her blouse and revealed two automatic pistols. Barkley gawked at her, momentarily astonished, receiving a grin in return, as she transferred a weapon to each hand. Diving around the barrier she let off a barrage of shots, which momentarily pinned Clayton to the wall.

But Frederick was still standing and he raised the villainous knife, intending to hurl it at Bronwyn. Then Barkley lunged forward with an enraged shout and tackled Frederick to the ground. The knife clattered from his hand as he brought the pistol swinging about to face the Inspector. But quick as a flash Barkley raised his own weapon and fired. His bullets flung the weapon from the thug's hand and it twisted through the air.

While this was going on Clayton had recovered from his momentary paralysis and charged angrily at Bronwyn. Bronwyn lifted both pistols and fired off a bullet each, thumping into the armour on his chest. Clayton flinched but kept on coming. Swinging a fist at her head he saw the Labrador duck and he crashed headlong into a filing cabinet. He just saw her swishing tail whip by his vision and let fire. The spray of bullets shredded through the draws and cabinets, turning the office into a snowstorm. Barkley jumped up again and dived in front of Bronwyn, shielding her as he dragged them both behind the desk. Breathing heavily they heard the bullets digging into the wood.

Suddenly the hail of fire stopped and Clayton was heard to roar with displeasure. A metallic clicking was heard as he attempted to fire again. Apparently he was now out of ammunition. Realising their one chance, Bronwyn and Barkley sprung up and raised their weapons. But Frederick saw this and yelled to Clayton, who flung aside the now useless machine gun. Frederick rushed at them with his recovered knife extending from his left fist; Barkley ducked and head-butted him in the chest. Frederick yelled in shocked pain and was again forced to relinquish the blade, doubling up in agony. Bronwyn lunged forward and flung a can of pepper spray into his face. Screaming in discomfort Frederick stumbled away and thumped into a filing cabinet, knocking him out cold.

Staring in dismay at his felled companion, Clayton charged forward recklessly. Bronwyn again prepared to fire but a vicious upper cut from the walrus sent her weapons soaring away. In sudden panic she dived aside as Clayton also came crashing to the floor. Behind him Barkley had scooped up a pair of handcuffs and bound Frederick securely. Clayton was just about to deliver a crushing blow to Bronwyn when Barkley noted an electro-shock pistol near the smashed door. He dived for it and scooped it up before he twisted about and flung it across the room. Bronwyn saw it coming and reached upwards, catching hold of it just in time.

"Hah, what are you going to do with that?" mocked Clayton.

"Just this," replied Bronwyn, simply.

She slammed down on the trigger and two cords shot out, latching themselves to Clayton's chest armour. His look of victory turned to surprise as a bright blue electric current surged out and racked his hulking body. With a dumbfounded sigh his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell unconscious onto the carpet. Bronwyn shuffled backwards with her hands and retrieved her own two pistols, throwing the other aside. She stood up as Barkley swiftly placed handcuffs on Clayton's wrists.

"Job well done Captain," exclaimed Barkley happily, "You have more than proved your prowess within Interpol. I shall see to your imminent promotion."

"Why, thankyou indeed sir," gushed Bronwyn, blushing, "I just did what was required in my time of duty. I am more than pleased to fight for what is right and wholesome." She glanced down at the two unconscious thugs, who Barkley had propped up in a corner. "Unlike some of us here anyway I dare say."

"Oh yes – them," Barkley continued dismissively, "Never mind them. I shall see to it that they are shipped off to Heathrow Penitentiary as soon as time allows; maybe sending a message to Raleigh at the same time. I shall ensure your brother is notified of this."

He barely had time to finish this sentence before a roar of rage made them both turn. Two more brutes had materialised in the ruined office and were staring horrified at Frederick and Clayton. One of them gaped and pointed – the other spoke, his voice seething in anger.

"Look at that," he said, "Our mates felled by these Interpol scum. This will not please Sir Raleigh anyhow." They both turned to the pair, who again began inching their hands towards their holsters. "You are going to pay for this act worms. Williamson - that is I of course – is real mad and you is not escaping our clutches. Come-on Harrison, let's knock'em round a little before we kill'em." The pair called Williamson and Harrison began shuffling slowly forwards, backing Bronwyn and Barkley into a corner. What could they do now?

#

Meanwhile, unaware of the happenings in the office, Captain Tusk strode proudly down the hallway with great stomping strides. He was supremely confident of his success, unaware of Clayton and Frederick's prior fate, thinking that nothing at all stood in his way. He was unaware also of the displeasure that General Aqualon had suffered at Raleigh's hands. If he had known of this, he likely would have been rather more apprehensive. But his ignorance bought him bliss; as such he ignored the smashed vases and broken flowers that were strewn about his feet.

He just stomped right over them and let them crunch beneath his great, flat soles. He smirked maliciously as he rounded a corner and heard sounds of yells and gunfire. Clearly his men were completing the mission they had been sent here for. That was good – the sooner they could get out of this blasted place the better. Behind him, two shadows were creeping slowly up the hall.

#

However, back inside Barkley's office, a whole different affair was in progress.

"I am coming for you vermin," screeched Williamson, his voice raising several octaves, "I am going to pump you full of enough lead to make you a millionaire! See how you like me when I am angry." The great sluggish brute charged like a battering ram at Barkley and head butted him in the chest. Barkley gasped in pain and toppled backwards. But he still held his gun and was just managing to swing it round when Harrison shouted.

"He has a gun he does," the walrus bawled out, "Watchout Williamson – he is trying to put one up your wind." He suddenly yelped and wheezed as he tripped on Frederick's unconscious form and Bronwyn planted two bullets into his armour. He crashed to the floor and began scrabbling about for a weapon.

"What, a gun?" said Williamson in a confused manner, "Where is the stupid gun idiot? I can't see it!"

"It's in his hand you great lummox," wheezed Harrison from the floor, "Look up in front of you."

"Blooming heck," cried Williamson, "So you are trying to pull a fast one on me are you? Well I don't think so – I am not that stupid see?" He glared and raised his own two weapons, cocking back the hammers with a metallic clicking.

"Who said you were stupid?" said Barkley calmly, gasping a little, "I just think you aren't very good at paying attention. It's about time you had your first lesson."

"What you mean?" said Williamson, "I isn't having any lessons – you is trying to fool me." He glanced around the office stupidly. He turned back to find both barrels of Bronwyn's guns in his face.

"You are about to have one anyway," she said, as if speaking to a disobedient child, "You had better remember this one I think. Beaten by a girl; oh dear, what will all the other men think of you?"

"Why you little..." said Williamson, his voice trailing off with rage, "Don't you mock me stupid girl. I think I shall deal with you first."

"Not so fast," said Barkley. While the thug had not been looking he had tossed his own gun away and snatched the steel in-tray off of his desk. He raised it high above his head. "Look up and you will get a surprise."

"Huh, what surprise?" said Williamson. His eyes widened as the in-tray came crashing down on his head and he feel to his knees. Momentarily he balanced there, swaying and dazed, before he crashed face-first onto the carpet - unconscious. Bronwyn clasped a pair of cuffs onto his wrists.

"Some surprise," laughed Bronwyn, "I think he'll remember that one during his stay at Heathrow. Thank you for getting me out of that little spot Barkley – I couldn't help myself."

Barkley looked surprised at her first use of his name, but his expression softened when he spoke. "That is all right my dear," he said grinning, "It's a pleasure to work alongside enthusiastic colleagues." He suddenly hollered and pointed as they both saw Harrison rising from the ground, having seized a standard lamp from a cabinet, wrenching the cord away from its plastic socket.

"Now you have done it – you have both done it," he gasped, breathing heavily, "It's just me now but I thinks that I can take care of you single-handedly. Besides Captain Tusk will be here soon and then you will most definitely be finished." He smirked and threateningly raised the lamp above his head as he advanced clumsily.  
Barkley dumped the in-tray down at his feet as the hulking monster, leering in the typically gormless fashion, stumbled towards the pair of them and hoisted the lump high above his head and prepared to swing a crushing blow.

Then Harrison gave an almighty heaving grunt and swung his impromptu weapon in a wild arc, clipping Barkley's suspenders and causing one strap to detach, falling to dangle about his belt and tweed pants. Bronwyn jumped backwards swiftly, avoiding the lamp, but found her pinned against the desk. Harrison lobbed a fist at Barkley and caught him again in the stomach, sending him sprawling into the wall. He heaved the lamp upwards again, his face red and glistening with sweat, making ready to tackle Bronwyn. But as he brought it down a second time she shoved both pistols into their holsters, seized the desk edge with both hands and performed a stunning back-flip over it, landing cat like on the carpeted floor.

Harrison gaped in obvious surprise, but he was too late to halt the momentum of his powerful swing. The lamp came rushing down and landed with a tremendous crash upon the desk, splintering the varnished wood as it broke in two. The walrus tumbled along with it and crashed again to the ground, with the lamp soaring out of his grip. It flew through the air and caught at Bronwyn's skirt, tearing half of the dark-blue material clean off. Then it smashed against the wall with a shredding of fabric and tinkling of glass. Breathing heavily, Bronwyn crept from around the dismembered desk and leaned down to assist Barkley, pulling him up as he gasped with pained breaths. Presently his gasps steadied and he stood up straight again. Bronwyn hastily yanked up one of her cream coloured stockings, which had been lolling about her ankle.

Then another groan emanated from the creature amidst the ruins of the desk, and Harrison began to push himself up with his palms. His bloodshot pupils turned with absolute rage towards Bronwyn and Barkley, who stood unflinchingly facing him. His hands writhing like snakes, Harrison lumbered forwards and scooped up Frederick's rejected knife. He clenched it firmly and was just making ready to toss it when someone else appeared in the office doorway.

"Harrison, what is going on?" roared the newcomer demandingly. He glanced down at the bodies of Clayton, Frederick and Williamson - cuffed and slumped in a corner. "Why have you not finished these Interpol do-gooders already? And why are my three other best men unconscious and bound?" He glared fiercely at the pair on the receiving end of Frederick's knife and laughed with devious pleasure. "I demand to know what has been going on here!" He paused for a moment. "Well it doesn't matter now; just finish them off already and then we can be off." He laughed a second time.

"Pardon me Captain Tusk sir!" exclaimed Harrison in shock. He was so used to the practice of greeting his superiors that he snapped immediately to attention and saluted with his right hand. Unfortunately he had not noticed the knife he was still holding.

"Lookout you fool," cried Tusk in frustration, "That knife is still in your fist. You're going to get stabbed in the head if you don't watch it."

But it was too late once again and Harrison succeeded in giving himself a close shave before he bawled in pain and flung the blade away. It bounced off the wallpaper and soared back across the room, planting itself into Captain Tusk's shoulder, who screamed out with surprise. He tumbled backwards and reached for his pistol as Barkley took the chance to whip his loose suspender at Harrison and snag his ankle. He yanked on it hard and sent the goon toppling backwards, who fell like a boulder onto his back. The floor shuddered with his weight as he fell, creating a resounding boom.

Bronwyn grabbed another pair of cuffs and bound him thoroughly, heaving him to the wall with his companions, his unconscious head lolling about lazily. At the same time Tusk wrenched the knife from his copiously bleeding wound and sent it soaring across the room again. It buried itself in the woodwork and stuck there. He uttered a deranged cry and made to stumble over the threshold. But, just before he could step forwards into the dilapidated office, a dark cord of leather snapped about his neck and pulled him back. Repeating his strangled yell, Tusk turned about to face the usurper.

#

Neyla gave a grim smile of satisfaction and tightened her grip on the leather handle. With a groan of effort, perspiration trickling down her forehead, she yanked back on the whip and wheeled the brute in. She noticed him twitch around to face here, like a fish on a hook, while he displayed an outraged grimace. Behind her Donald had raised the camera to his shoulder and had started filming intently. She heard the clicking whir of the camera as it recorded the scene.

But she only heard this for a brief moment as the walrus grabbed a deadly throwing star from his belt and tossed it straight at her. She ducked aside and the weapon clanged off the camera lens with a deep ringing sound, only to soar backwards and severe Neyla's hair ties. As the metre-long brown locks tumbled about her shoulders she grabbed her glasses and tossed them away. In reality she did not need them at all; she just liked to look professional. She ducked again as another throwing star shredded a nearby painting. With the film footage, and article for the Gazette's readers, she would make a favourable reporter and an even more interesting story: her own face on the front of the paper – how very thrilling.

She was roused from her reverie when her quarry issued a scream of frustration and hurled the remains of a broken vase at her head. She twisted acrobatically and managed to kick at it with her left foot. It smashed to dust and fluttered down over Donald, who began coughing and spluttering like a choked engine. Another shower of vase then flew at her, only this time it missed completely and again smashed into the camera lens. This confused Donald even more and he stumbled backwards wildly, staggering about in a daze. He only managed to steady the camera again as the walrus rushed forwards clutching a pistol.

Neyla's whip began falling slack in her hands as the walrus dragged its coils with him. He used his left fist to lob a punch to her chest and she was forced to jump forwards like a gymnast, using his shoulders as a springboard, and leap over his broad back. He gesticulated insanely and let his fist fall as he wheeled around with his pistol ready. Neyla used the moment of confusion to yank on the whip and pull it tight. The walrus yelped and skidded in porcelain dust as she reeled the whip's folds into her jacket. But he remained on his feet and fired the pistol with two loud bangs.

Neyla felt with a lingering sensation the searing pain as the two bullets just grazed her skin. They flew just over her right shoulder and smacked into the wall beyond. She was about to start forward when the whole right side of her jacket fell away, revealing her crisp undershirt and blouse. The bullets had shredded the garment cleanly in two. The walrus cocked his head back and laughed brutishly. Neyla's face went red in anger and embarrassment.

_How dare this usurper,_ she thought to herself, _how he dare come in here and attempt to ruin my story; then laugh and shame me like this! Not only that but he disrespects rules completely and makes an attempt on Interpol? I shall teach him a lesson he won't forget in a hurry!_

With the speed of a striking cobra she lashed forwards and kicked the firearm right out of his fist. It soared away and bounced off a side table. It landed with a clunk on the floor and let off a spray of ammunition. One bullet smashed a hole in a nearby window, while a second zipped right under Mr Draper's legs, which caused him to drop the camera. A third bullet pinged off a picture frame and shaved the walrus's hindquarters, earning a pained screech. He danced on the spot, clasping the whip about his thick neck. Neyla looked on with distaste and pulled again. This time he fell forwards and crashed down at her feet.

The resounding noise echoed off of the corridor walls and away down the staircase. At the sound, two heads poked out from around the splintered door of an office. One of them was a badger and the other a Labrador. Both were dressed in Interpol uniform. Apparently the thug at her feet had failed to hit his target. These must be Inspector Barkley and Captain Higgins of the law enforcement unit. Both looked stunned as they gawked at Neyla's snared prey. Before long the badger gulped, swallowed, and then spoke with a rasp.

"Oh my, my," he proclaimed, "Quite an impressive feet there my dear. I thought that brute had both of us cornered if not for your speedy intervention. A few of his ah... The badger paused for a moment. "A few of his charming companions had a good go at it just now. It is lucky Bronwyn and I are still here. Incidentally my dear – who are you?" He raised a questioning eyebrow. The girl called Bronwyn stared admiringly.

"Hermione Jane Neyla," she stated, suddenly business like, "Reporter for the Eiffel Gazette and here to interview and make your acquaintance – assuming you are Jean Augustus Barkley. Am I correct? This is my cameraman Mr Donald Draper." She waved carelessly over at the bear that was picking himself up, gone white with porcelain dust. "He was hit a little hard by this lug here - but in my view it is all necessary for a worthwhile article."

"Actually, my friends call me Grizz," Donald buttered in, "I mostly prefer a little of art and painting myself; not really into this news stuff."

"Nonsense of course," said Neyla, "Mr Draper has been my camera man for a good two years now."

Barkley gawped incredulously while Captain Bronwyn Higgins looked on admiringly. "You mean that you are the reporter I am waiting for?" said Barkley, "You who just felled this hunk of muscle on the floor?" He pointed down to emphasize what he said. "Oh my, oh my," said he, "Now that is what I call a reporter who hankers after a good story; a real and genuine pleasure to meet you Hermione, if I may call you Hermione?"

"Indeed you may," Neyla replied kindly, "Now, may we have that interview please? I am also interested in continuing this story further. Maybe if I were to accompany your field team, with Miss Fox of course, on their next job. So that my readers get an in-depth look at the story; that way I believe I can get further inside the complexities that make the Cooper tale."

"Of course - you're hired," Barkley said eagerly, "After this little chat we can get straight into it. Once Miss Fox's team returns I shall send you along to follow the case; I guess the public should know some of what goes on within Interpol after all. By way of my cohort's dear brother - he gestured towards Bronwyn – I shall send her a message and inform her of your participation. I am sure that there will be no reservations present." He smiled in return and spread his arms wide to allow her inside his office.

"Why thank you very much Inspector," Neyla said, "Very much obliged: you will not regret this decision. Come Donald." She waved back to her ungainly cameraman who tottered over. "We will need that camera of yours."

"Well, I had best take care of these goons while you do that," chimed in Bronwyn, "Another good lot for Heathrow, or should I say Death row Penitentiary. That is what I hear many of the inmates call it. I shall just call more officers and we shall have them off tonight. No men will return to Sir Raleigh anytime soon aye boys?" She swept her gaze over the prostrate prisoners. "Oh well, I had best be off. Hope you get what you need." She bestowed a small grin on Neyla as she began to haul the thugs out of the office and dump them by the wall. Then she strode off down what remained of the tidy corridor.

"A good officer, Bronwyn" said Neyla, "Almost married to her job you might say, still, a very loyal person to have on your team."

"Very loyal indeed and of great value," boasted Barkley, "I think the rather tragic family history is what makes her so enthusiastic here. She and her brother – the same is said for many of us here at Interpol. You might just as well say Inspector Fox is married to her work, though with what you might call a decidedly black-and-white outlook on crime."

"Really?" said Neyla, "What a juicy fact for my article." She whipped out a notepad with the hand not holding the whip and began scribbling on it. "I hope you don't mind my writing this down?"

"Not at all Hermione," said Barkley, "Just be mindful of what you put in the article, because we can't have everything getting out. This case must maintain a certain degree of secrecy."

"Of course," Neyla said politely, though feeling a little disappointed. "I shall respect all of your wishes Inspector Barkley. Now, let's get to writing this article and enthralling my readers." She unfurled her whip and, reeling it in its viper like coils, stowed it on her belt. Walking away from the prostrate Captain Tusk she made ready to write upon her pad. She was surprised that Barkley had not yet spoken. She turned and saw a look of shock on his face. Wheeling about she found herself bathed in the shadow of her opponent, who had apparently not been unconscious after all.

"Look out;" said Barkley, "He's right on top of you!"

"You skinny piece of female vermin," hollered Tusk, "You and your feminine wit. I am going to knock your head clean off for humiliating me." He raised his fists.

"Yes, you may try," Neyla said calmly into his face, "But I think not."

He flung himself upon her and she skidded back, making him fall again. He screamed and lashed out for her ankle, grabbing it in his fist. He yanked and she toppled down. Quick as a flash he was up and preparing to clobber her with a table. But Neyla re-drew her deadly whip and swung it about, its tail-end cracking in a piercing snap. It caught him on the chin and he wobbled. In turn she rocketed upwards and delivered a punch to his face. His eyes rolled back and he collapsed, again at her feet. Several officers rushed up the hall and accosted the wretched man as Neyla returned her attention to Barkley, who starred in total awe and astonishment.

"Just one more question," Barkley stammered, "How did you learn to fight like that?"

"Oh I grew up back in rural India during my youth," said Neyla nonchalantly, "My parents were not the richest people in the world – we were a British family. I spent all of my childhood in Uttar Pradesh without much luxury at all. I really had to learn to defend myself."

"Oh," said Barkley, "I would never have guessed; I did not mean to pry, please forgive me for my, ah, insensitivity to your background."

"Not at all," said Neyla with indifference, "Considering my parents could hardly care for me and their needs, when I reached the age of twenty-one, I haven't done too badly. I was educated at Cambridge after all. I have managed to find success."

"A most commendable feat," said Barkley, "That is the kind of person we look for here at Interpol. With your self-honed fighting skills maybe you would someday be interested in a job with us?"

"Possible, quite possible," said Neyla, "The notion has come to me before now. Back then I'll never know how my parents earned enough to get me back to England. Hopefully someday I can repay them."

"Where are they now?" asked Barkley.

"They live in a small inner-London flat," Neyla said flatly, "My father's rug and textiles business finally took off. We now own a small factory in New Delhi and a shop in Windsor."

"And there is more money?" queried Barkley.

"Yes, enough to make reasonable living," said Neyla, "I hope that my income will subsidise their earnings. I myself now make enough money to support my own flat in Bordeaux and my newspaper in Paris. It is enough for now."

"If I talk with the board I'll see what can be done," promised Barkley, "My associates in Prague would like to know of this. I shall write to The Contessa and see what we have."

"Thankyou Jean," said Neyla, "After all, what use is teaching one's self to fight when I cannot use my skills?"

"Your talents will not go to waste," promised Barkley, "I think involvement in this case will be enough to prove that. I wish you good luck."

"You're very generous," said Neyla softly, "Can we have that interview now?"

"Come in and take a seat," Barkley said.

There was a sound of grunting and knuckles on flesh and the pair turned.

"I'll get you, I'll get you," spat Tusk for the final time, "My master will finish you." His last and shrill remark was silenced as the officers suppressed him. He disappeared around the corner of the corridor.

"Well, back to business then," Neyla said, as if nothing had just happened.

Inspector Barkley smiled and followed her into the office. A fair time into the future, although he did not realise it, he would realise the magnitude of his decision. What Neyla would become. He would feel regret and horror. But he could not know it now. As the master who ruled the Five knew, hatred lay dormant. It could wait and fester: wait for a lifetime if necessary. Hate was eternal, it never died; it could linger – it would consume and change. But Barkley could not guess and remained blissfully unaware. He sat down opposite the tigress.

**The English Channel, off the coast of Scotland:**

Captain Tusk sat bound on the hard metal floor. He sat seething in rage and fear as the gentle rock of the ocean was felt beneath him. Only another half-hour on the liner and he would be on his way to Heathrow. He knew just one thing: he had failed, they had all failed, and now someone had to pay. He cringed as he thought of the consequences of his failures. He hoped for the sake of his men that they succeeded in wiping out Inspector Fox. Then they would answer to the master. He shivered as a cold sweat broke over him.

The cold and nameless rage of the master had only ever been told to him; never had he seen or experience it himself. But he feared it non-the-less. Sir Raleigh had always threatened that this was what would come of failure. It must not fail – their plan must not fail. The Fiendish Five must endure. But Tusk would do so no longer. He was going where he now belonged: in prison with his fellows. He silently thanked himself of his good luck. He should escape the master's wrath. The message had already been sent. Sir Raleigh would now know of his mission's failure. Little could he know that General Aqualon was currently feeling the same way. Cooper would return, he thought, Cooper would return to combat them again. This was not the end. He sat back as the liner sailed through the night.

**Location unknown, somewhere within the Svalbard Islands, Norway: 10:07 PM.**

The will of hatred pulsed and seethed in silent anger. His loyal servants, his idiotic but loyal servants had failed him. Cooper had bested him yet again. The wretched clan of thieves he had thought to be destroyed had returned to haunt him. But this one feeble and silly boy did not frighten him, he though with contempt: he could deal with Sly Cooper easily enough. For what reason had he spared the brat's life anyway? For what reason would he have done so when he had personally seen to the demise and death of the entire bloodline? Why, to show that he, the master, was superior above the Coopers and their precious book.

Then he would proceed to destroy all that he loved, all dear to Cooper until nothing remained but bitterness, remorse and regret. His goal was just away from him and yet it was not achieved – all because of Sly Cooper! The master grinned to himself: the wretched book would never again be in the hands of a Cooper. He would personally see to that. His long lived plan, laid out meticulously over the centuries had to succeed and it would succeed. The thousands of his years he had pushed himself beyond were nothing now. His hatred was immortal: it would all end with Sly Cooper. But he, the master, would remain forever more; his legacy, not the Coopers. Then would his plan be achieved. All he had to do was wait.

**The Isle of Wrath, Wales and the United Kingdom: 10:09 PM.**

"What?' roared Sir Raleigh, "What do mean – failed to kill Barkley?" He stared, his eyes bloodshot - incensed, at the sheet of paper he held. He began to rapidly swell with anger as his face turned a fantastic shade of puce. Marius had promised his men would succeed and look at this – this sheer incompetence! Not only had they all failed but they were also captured. The Master would be irritated at his servant's ineffectiveness to carry out such a menial task. It could not happen again!

Raleigh had been right to distrust General Aqualon's abilities and here was the proof. His men were captured and Interpol unscathed. He could no longer be trusted at all. If there was to be any punishment, Raleigh knew that it would be his general who received it. Not he, he who tried with every fibre of his being to carry out what he was bidden. He highly doubted now that he would be rid of Inspector Fox and the remaining Interpol vermin. Barkley survived to wage further war against The Five while the fate of the Cooper boy remained unknown. Raleigh was also sure of that now too – the boy had survived. And he would be back; this was not the last of the raccoon. He must take action.

The pages, in the vault beneath his throne, seemed to be burning a whole into the metal, as if reminding him of the consequences for their loose. Sweating nervously, Sir Raleigh shoved the thought out of his mind and leapt from his seat. The Cooper Gang was not about to give up now in any case: even if Cooper had perished his friends would ensure the pages were retrieved. They must all be killed, all be slaughtered for their insolence. Their naivety in thinking they could best his master with compassion, love and kindness. This whole rubbish of honourable thieves was nonsense in the extreme: only the power possessed by his master could truly give you strength.

There was no such thing as good or bad – there was only power and those prepared to seek it. Goodness was an idealised notion, an idea within lesser beings than he. One had to go beyond the usual boundaries of such trivial matters if they were to be powerful. He could crush Cooper – for Cooper had his weakness in compassion. He cared for his friends, for the common man even. Maybe even, Raleigh thought, for that silly fox. That gave him a diabolical idea.

He smirked to himself; why not just exploit this to cause Cooper pain – draw him out and finish him off. Kill all those around him and he would surely surrender himself to bring it to an end. Prove to the boy that he was not grand like his master, never as greater thief. Cooper had never gone the lengths of The Master. The bloodline had relied on each other and their wretched book to survive. In the end, that would be proven to the world. As neither all good nor bad, the Coopers were nothing. They would be just a mere footnote in history.

They would be at least if the boy was finished, as the last of his kin. He would make the raccoon realise he was nothing, nothing. Love was nothing: it had betrayed him a long time ago and he was a better off for it. The legacy of these vigilantes would fade into obscurity, lost in the sands of time. But if he did not act, take action now, his empire would crumble and fall around him. That would never happen; he could not bear the thought. He strode over to his radio system and flicked it on, the devices humming into life. His croaking voice boomed out over the ship, heard from every corner of the island. Every ear heard it clearly as day; even the ears of a certain raccoon, who was now readying himself for the final conflict.

"Hear me everyone - all of you!" roared Raleigh, his magnified voice bouncing around the isle. "I don't care what has to be done. I don't care what happens to any of you pathetic worms under my command. You have all failed me in some way and now the price must be paid. Despite all my efforts, none of what I wished of you has been achieved, all through your rotten and lousy inefficiencies." His voice hit an octave and he was temporarily silent, his face now going a beautiful shade of heliotrope.

Presently he regained his breath and burst forth again into the tirade. "Barkley is alive and some of my best men captured. My best general himself has failed me! Now we are to be swamped by these Interpol scum and all because of failures, failures and failures!" His voice now began to become shrill and high as he became angrier and, although he did not want to admit it, more afraid for his own life at the hands of his master.

"I speak directly to you, Sly Cooper," he said with relish, "Earlier this day I tried to have Inspector Barkley of Interpol assassinated and it failed. I had my men attempt to rub you out and I suspect that you are not gone for good. I know you are out there snivelling boy and you cannot escape. Do you hear me? You will not escape this island alive!" He absolutely screamed his last words here. He seethed where he sat before recommencing his speech.

"My master is already displeased at your continual resistance to him," droned Raleigh, "He has made it known that you should be dealt with to prove your worthlessness – to prove that you are absolutely nothing. You are just a snot-nosed brat in way over your head. If you do not present yourself to me, if you do not come to meet your fate, then I will crush all that you love. I will use your stupid compassion against you and slaughter all who stand in my way - your friends and that charming vixen Carmelita Montoya Fox."

He paused for dramatic tension and grinned maliciously. He would love to know what Cooper was thinking right now, how he would be seething with anger at his foe.

"She will die and all because of you!" exclaimed Raleigh jubilantly. "If you will not come forth and submit your own life she will die slowly and painfully. To remind you that all Coopers are nothing more than scum: all Coopers are nothing more than petty thieves who know no real skill. Your legacy ends here Cooper, ends here with you. Come to me and salvage the lives of your puny friend's raccoon."

Raleigh stood still momentarily before a final thought slithered into his foul mind, one with which he could taunt Sly Cooper all the more. "All that you love will be gone Cooper. I know that you secretly desire the woman you can never have, because you are a thief. Give it up and come calmly into the jaws of destiny, knowing that in the end it could have been - but never will be."

"I know your weaknesses and I know what you fear. Give yourself up and end it. All will be crushed and the world you know will die. But you can stop this Cooper. If you give up your own life for the countless that you can save. Finish your conflict by admitting you were never my equal!" The heartless maniac cackled absurdly and wiped tears of mirth from his eyes.

"This is my final word you wretched boy," he hissed, "Your life is worth nothing to me. I don't care who I kill to get at you. This will be the last of the Coopers. My Master will have his vengeance – it all comes down to you. I have already initiated the deaths of your friends. They will all die within the hour unless you come forth for them. Come to me now or this is the end for you. The end for the girl you love." He made a ghastly imitation of kissing noises. "Succumb to your destiny scamp, or you will be destroyed. Have the courage to face me, you naive boy – you petty thief!"

He ended the speech and the island fell silent. The impact of his words seemed to hang in the air afterwards like poisonous smog.

#

Carmelita stood frozen to the spot, aghast at what the villain had just said. Inspector Barkley had narrowly escaped death and Cooper was in mortal peril. She and her men were to fear attack. Cooper's friends were to be slaughtered and she along with them. And the girl he loved? Could this be true? Had Cooper always loved her, separated by the barrier between them? The invisible conflict within her raged to life – she could never love Cooper, because of her duties. His charm and debonair personality – no, she must not be seduced by the silver-tongued raccoon. But she had to save the lives of his friends; she had to keep on fighting.

Despite all she knew, he meant something to her. Nestled in that small corner of her heart, she would always have a soft spot for Sly Cooper. Some amount of affection for him and his rag-tag gang of friends. And no matter how she looked at it, she knew she always would. She would fight for justice by protecting what she loved. She could still change Cooper – with time. A twig cracked behind her.

"Dios mio!" she gasped, swinging about.

**This is Chapter 8 of 13 in Part 2 of 6.  
Neyla's timely arrival will ensure that the Fiendish Five case will immortalize Sly Cooper's rise to becoming a master thief.**  
**But what can this mean for her in the end? Whose lives will be lost and whose lives will be ultimately and dramatically altered forever?**  
**The Master's web continues to widen...**  
**This chapter was unusual in that it was entirely made-up. There may be more like this in part 3. As always, I hope you enjoy reading it!**


	13. Chapter 12 - Night of the Sword Fight

**Chapter Twelve: Lovely Night for a Sword Fight!**

**Author's Note: I really wanted to have a sword fight between Sly and a new villain. The character, General Aqualon, is a character I created who may appear in any future Fan-Fiction I write. The chapter name was inspired from a track on the _Sly Cooper: Thieves in Time_ soundtrack._  
_**

The beach at the lagoon's edge was silent. Only the slight splashing ripples of the water against rock indicated any sound. Detritus was scattered in the shadow of Raleigh's boat like a child's toys. The wind blew through the place as the gasp of a lonely soul. Only the flickering of flashlights on the deck gave any signs of life - the few men who remained on guard, doing their duty to a cruel master.

But then a small cloud of bubbles rippled down by the beach. The surface of the water frothed and broke in waves. A blue-gloved hand grew from the spot and an arm followed, rising out of the swell. Sly Cooper erupted from the water and hauled his damp and bedraggled body ashore. His face was cut and bleeding. Many of his clothes were torn. But he was alive. He lay there panting on the sand, his beating heart giving him every reassurance of his continual existence. Thank goodness for the treasures at the bottom of the lake – he still clutched the shattered chest which had narrowly saved his life. He flung it aside.

"I will finish this Raleigh," Sly whispered aloud, "I will finish you and your master. You will not claim any more lives." He stood up, supporting himself with the cane as he trembled with cold. "I am a Cooper – from a long line of honourable and master thieves. You will not take away that to which you have no right. I will show you how great the Cooper clan once was and will be. Compassion gives us strength and your hatred is to be your downfall. You are blinded by your greed and jealousy. You will never endanger my family again." He staggered forward with determination in his heart.

"You will never realise it," he said, "But the real reason you hated the Coopers is because we had what you never could. I had a loving family and you took that away from me. You know in truth that you could never be like us: that is why you stole our secrets. That is why you detest love and kindness. We Coopers were master thieves but we have always cared. Unlike you, we will never take another's life." He paused and straightened up, standing defiantly towards his enemy.

"And I will uphold that as long as my blood flows. That is why we are superior, and you could never have that. Instead you became a monster and destroy others to ease your own pain. All because of a grudge you made yourself. You will become your own demise. We Coopers have always cared and that is what stopped as from going to your lengths to become great. It is because of that we were masters. Without emotion, what would we be but any petty criminal? Ask yourself this before you make one last mistake." He now stood right on the edge of the lake's bank.

"And you will never touch my friends," he said, "You will never touch Carmelita while I am alive. You cannot extinguish the Coopers for one simple reason: you have never understood our true nature." His face was fixed and set. It was time to put an end to this lunatic once and for all. He had to be the one who did it - the one who knew the real worth of a loving family and friends. He himself would become a master thief.

#

Carmelita swung around and gaped in shock. Several massive bodies had just come thundering along the cliff above them, and now tumbled down about the officers below. They unfurled themselves and she saw that they were all walruses. All of the men were hulking and broad shouldered, decked out with black-leather jackets and jeans, carrying assortments of deadly looking weapons. They all smirked maliciously, but stupidly, as they spread out amongst the assembled officers. This must be how Sir Raleigh intended to have them removed from the scene. Carmelita's fingers inched towards her holster.

There were about eight officers including herself, Higgins and Pierre. Bentley and Murray were still tied by the van, both looking grave, but as if they had expected this. She noticed that the brutes were spreading out in a way that would separate each officer – they were splitting them up and then they would be picked off. The goons had obviously been well trained. But as long as she was able she would try to fight her way out. She had not come this far just to be slaughtered by some villain. She had little doubt in her mind now: though a thief, Sly Cooper really was a hero to be taking on this kind of crime. She was forced to admit that Cooper had never come anything close to this: he had never hurt any innocent people to steal, or his friends. Killing was the difference here.

She was forced to return to the present when a burly brute, who was at least six-foot three, lumbered up to her. Even though she herself was just about six-foot two, he seemed enormous. He leered and withdrew a massive pistol, while she witnessed his numerous other weapons gleaming in the folds of the jacket. Her left hand settled on the grip of her shock pistol. If only she could just get it out. Before she could act on the impulse, the one in front of her – he must have been the leader – started to speak.

"Yep boys," he grunted, "These wimps are the filth we were sent to find, exactly as General Aqualon said. Dispatch them and kill them before Sir Raleigh has our heads he said." Most of the other men growled in acknowledgement, grinning with cold malice at their victims. All of them had drawn their various weapons and held the officers at their tips. Higgins was trembling a little while Pierre stared stoically into the face of his captor. One of the men scratched his head in thought, stared up into the rain, and then spoke.

"We found them alright Johnson," he said, "But what's it that we do now hey? Are you absolutely sure that these are the right ones – there can't be any more mistakes."

"Of course there won't be," growled Johnson, "Or we're all for the high jump." He glared angrily at his cohort, who suddenly became very interested in his shoelaces.

"Anyway, I know these are the right ones because this chick here matches her description perfectly like." He waved a paw vaguely towards Carmelita. "Bout six three, long black hair and she's a fox - I learnt this off be heart see? The dossier also said she's about twenty-four and that looks about right, ay? Also says that she has a fiery temper, though we don't know that yet; do we girly?"

He stuck his thick index finger under Carmelita's chin and forced her face up to his. The foul waves of his breath smelt like rotten eggs. His teeth were brick-yellow.

"Ha – you have a way with these girls don't you?" said the same man again, "Always the charmer aren't we Johnson? Oh well, I guess we kill them then." He guffawed, failing to notice Pierre drawing a pistol behind him. He winked at Carmelita, who returned it with a wink. She noted Higgins removing pepper spray from his pocket - she had to distract them.

"Of course we are to kill them," spat Johnson, "What else would we do with nags like these anyhow? And yes, I do like to think that I have something with the ladies. Such a gentleman I am indeed." He hitched a sickening simper onto his face and grinned like a seasick pig. It made Carmelita want to regurgitate her last meal. At least Cooper – probably Bentley too - really was a gentleman.

She forced her eyes to remain open and she glared into the piggy pupils of her captor. "You disgust me," she said with an air of distaste, "It's no wonder that men like you are in a place like this. You could have done so much with your life and look at how you spent it. Working for some loathsome organised crime figure with little purpose or importance. Do you really think you couldn't have done better?" She fixed him with a gaze of brutal honesty. The smirk on his face dissolved and she noted the other men shuffle uncomfortably, slightly backing away from the spot. She could now recognise that there were ten of them in all.

"What did you just say to me girly?" he growled with venom. "Did you just insult me?"

"Yes, I did," replied Carmelita simply, "Is there a problem with that?" She knew that to outwit the dim man she would have to make him angry, and keep him there.

Then he could be taken by surprise. It seemed to be working: his face flushed a shade of vermillion.

"Why you insolent vixen!" he exclaimed loudly, "How dare you say that to me – one of Sir Raleigh's elite. I'll teach you a lesson that you'll never forget." He seized Carmelita around the throat and hoisted her off the ground. She felt her neck become constricted as he hoisted her up and held her there. Higgins gasped in anguish but was slapped over the head by his assailant. He sank to his knees as Pierre inched forward slightly. The pistol was now in his hand.

"Careful Johnson," said another man "Can't kill the lady before we've had our fun. We better knock up her companions first and that'll do the trick. Let her suffer some pain first." He guffawed and slapped his gun to his knee.

"Shut up Lane," said Johnson, "I'll have my own fun while you boys knock around those other cops. This lady is mine." He grinned with apparently evil intentions in mind. "Now go ahead and kill them before anything else can go wrong. Do it – remember what happened to Captain Tusk?" Lane gulped and raised his gun. He signalled to the other men and they spread out around the officers. Every one of them grasped a weapon and was pointing them at anyone they could reach.

"Remember to finish off Cooper's friends as well," added Lane. "Or else there will be no end to our troubles." He gestured to where Bentley and Murray sat bound by ropes. "All of these cops must be dead before we report back to headquarters. So say goodbye sweetie." He cocked back the hammer of his pistol and put it against the head of a young officer.

"I wouldn't do that," Carmelita gasped, swaying from her perch, "None of us is about to go down without a fight, and I certainly will not let any of my men die here. If you dare squeeze that trigger I will have to show you the long arm of the law." She glared at Lane, but was forced into silence as Johnson tightened his grip.

"Shut your face foxy," said Johnson, "I want none of your piffle bout the law or all the goodness in the world. You and I will have a little fun before I put an end to it for good. Prepare for some roughing up, if you get my drift." His blunt features broke into a look of repulsive pleasure. Out of the corner of her eye, Carmelita saw Bentley shift convulsively, looking over worriedly. At least some people could be concerned and civilised. His left hand twitched and began to slide forwards toward her chest. He was just about to grasp her blouse and tear at it when someone screamed.

Shuddering with repulsion, Carmelita saw that the scream had come from Higgins. He had pushed himself up and lunged forwards, his arms flailing. But Lane grasped him by the back of his collar with a free hand, dragging him back. His face dripped with perspiration, his body shuddering with rage.

"Not so fast pretty boy," jeered Lane, "Your beautiful girlfriend there is just getting what she deserves. Why don't you watch while Johnson gets on with it?" He seized Higgins by the chin and roughly forced his face upwards. He made him stare across at Johnson, who still had Carmelita dangling from his massive fists.

"Don't you touch her," said Higgins, tears tracking his face, "You terrible brutes had better not touch a hair on her head. She is worth ten-times all of you put together. If you dare do anything to her, you will answer to me." More tears ran into his moustache as he was suppressed by Lane.

"Quite lover boy," hissed Johnson, "This fox here is getting the royal treatment and there isn't a thing you can do about it. Stand and weep."

He turned back to Carmelita and grasped her blouse with his left hand. Bentley and Murray squirmed, desperately trying to release their bonds. Both of them burned with rage at the atrocities of these monsters. In their world, Interpol were those who they respected – never to be treated with such contempt. Bentley would rather be hauled back to the station a-thousand times more so than watch this grotesque display of villainy.

"Don't you dare," he warned, "If I know Miss Fox, you'll regret it all the way back to Interpol. I will throw myself in front of her if you even think of doing what I know you want to. How low could you go?" His face burned now and Johnson's eyes sizzled with rage.

"The Murray will pound you," said Murray, "You won't be killing anyone while The Murray is here."

"Shut up thief," screamed Johnson, "I want none of your tripe. What kind of a thief can you both be if you care for her?" He shook Carmelita like a doll. "A weak thief, that's what. You're not a true thief at all – just like your friend Cooper. You all just pretend, never to go the lengths of my master."

"It is because we don't that we are different from your master," said Bentley, "That is why Sly Cooper is greater than any of you ever will be. Because he cares for, he respects someone like Miss Fox. Now put her down or else."

"Yes, you listen to him," said Higgins approvingly. He flashed a look of thanks towards Bentley, who returned it with a welcome smile.

"Why Bentley," said Carmelita with affection, "I had no idea that you cared so much. I can't believe that it is you and your friends that I have to hunt. I am glad to know that some criminals are as well mannered as you. I promise you that you shall receive fair justice when I do have to bring you in - thank you." Johnson seized her blouse even more tightly and she fell silent.

"Thank you Carmelita," said Bentley, "But now really is not the time. We have to get you out of that goon's grasp." Another walrus smacked him over the head to silence him. Murray reeled towards him in rage, swinging his fists.

"You keep away from him," bellowed Murray, "No one harms Bentley while I am here. You had better watch out." He grunted when he, too, was knocked back by a guard.

"And Higgins," rasped Carmelita, "I could never forget you, having worked with you for three years. I am touched by your compassion." Rolling his great eyes, Johnson slapped Carmelita in the face and a red patch appeared on her cheek.

"That does it," screamed Higgins, "Now Pierre, now!"

"Very much obliged sergeant," said Pierre, speaking in English through his thick French accent. "Okay boys, the jig is up." He glanced at Higgins and then swiftly brought his hand holding the pistol swinging up. Lane gaped in shock and surprise when he saw the weapon appear. The other walruses turned around and made to close in upon Pierre.

"Finish him off idiots," bawled Johnson, "Get that gun away from him." His companions now dived for Pierre. Then many things happened all at once.

Higgins wormed his way free from his captor and swung the pepper spray towards his eyes. He gave it a good squirt and a fine cloud of moisture drifted into the thug's visage. He yelled and staggered about, clutching his burning eyes, one arm groping out for Higgins. Pierre dived beneath the arm of another walrus and fired his pistol twice. Both bullets skimmed past Higgins and dug themselves into Johnson's right shoulder. He hollered and was forced to relinquish Carmelita. She dropped to the ground, half of her torn jacket still in Johnson's hand. Then the rest of the officers rushed into the fray, all of them wielding cuffs and other articles.

Pierre somersaulted between the legs of some more goons and fired his pistol towards Higgins. The bullet flipped the knife held by Lane into the bushes. He gesticulated silently and hopped stupidly about on the spot. Higgins took the chance to lunge at his back and send him toppling over. He was knocked cold by the fall. Higgins forced cuffs onto his over-large wrists and dragged him to one side. Then he jumped back into the action, where nine more walruses still stood fighting.

While all of this was going on, Carmelita had sprung up at last, sliding the shock pistol from its holster. Johnson had collected himself also and began to bare down on Carmelita.

"You wretched girl," he hissed, "I am going to flatten you – that'll make Cooper squeal." He sucked in and spat at her feet. Carmelita glared at him in abject distaste.  
"That will never happen," she said, "Because unlike you, Cooper actually deserves some respect – the respect of justice. I may have to bring him in – like you – but there is more to that raccoon than you know, and I can change him, unlike you."

"Impertinence!" screamed Johnson. "I like that indeed – prepare to die girly!" He clenched an automatic pistol and levelled it between her eyes. He squeezed the trigger three times with three successive bangs.

But instead of falling, Carmelita had folded and rolled, sliding neatly between Johnson's feet. She unfurled herself and popped up behind his square back. He blinked gormlessly before doing a pirouette on the spot to face her. His eyes became bloodshot and they blazed with rage and fury. He fired again, but this time Higgins lunged across his vision and took the bullets to the chest. Carmelita cried out as he fell, but soon realised that he was alive. Higgins landed on the wet earth with a flump and lay there momentarily, but then he sprang up once more; the torn jacket he wore revealed the indentations on his bullet-proof vest. He flung the remains of his old uniform aside.

He was just going to fire his own pistol, which he had won off a walrus, when the pepper spray brute lumbered across his path and jumped at him. His seething eyes wept with tears as he swung wildly at the Labrador. Half blinded, the walrus could not get a clear shot, enabling Higgins to twirl around him and slide a truncheon out of his belt. He flung the weapon through the air and clonked his would-be-assailant squarely on the temple. He keeled forwards and collapsed in a stupor. Pierre skimmed by and dropped a pair of cuffs over him, which Higgins grabbed and used to bind him. Dropping him back down by Lane, both Higgins and Carmelita were just in time to avoid a blow from two more goons.

While all this was going on, Bentley was trying with desperation to untie the ropes that bound him. Murray was also squirming, falling on his side to jolt about in the mud. But the bindings were just too tight to uncoil. When all seemed lost, Bentley heard some hushed footsteps behind him and then a cold hand clamped itself over his mouth, smothering his scream. He felt rather than saw their mouth come close to his right ear.

"Don't make a sound and don't say anything," whispered the voice. It had a vaguely Scottish and English accent rolled into one. "I am going to cut your ropes and then the cords binding your friend. Do not do anything and do not move until I say so. When the ropes are cut, you must wait thirty seconds before looking back." Then the voice was gone from beside his ear. He felt his hands shake and convulse as the mysterious rescuer hacked away at the ropes. Then Murray gulped in surprise as his ropes were cut.

Bentley felt his bonds fall away.

"Remember – don't look back," said the voice. "Go and help Cooper all you can." Bentley heard the ferns rustle as the unknown entity dashed away from the scene.

"But – wait!" yelled Bentley, "Who are you? I must know who rescued us!" But the person was gone, having melted into the dark and raining night.

"Who was that?" asked Murray, "If not Sly, who could have freed us?"

"I have no idea Murray," said Bentley, becoming hushed, 'But someday I will know."

His thoughts were short lived when a walrus charged up to them. He clenched a dagger in his fist and threw it with great force. The wicked blade soared through the air and clanged off the van. It left a silver scratch in the paintwork. Murray gawked in rage and disbelief.

"My baby!" he cried, "How dare you. No one does that to my beauty." He charged forwards at the usurper, who looked shocked that Murray was no longer bound. He attempted to remove a pistol from his jacket, but was felled immediately by a lethal punch to his chest. He doubled up and rasped, but then grunted weirdly as his eyes rolled into his head and he toppled backwards. Bentley bounced up and glanced beyond the twitching body of the monster. Carmelita stood there holding her shock pistol high, its nozzle still smoking slightly.

"That's the way I do these things," she said, grinning at the twosome, "And I see that you two are free now. I suppose that means you'll run off to help Sly? Oh well, if so, so be it. I have respect for you but I must stand by my duty. I will not hinder you now, while Sly is in danger, but in future we are on opposite sides. I can never truly side with a thief." A pained expression flitted past her face and was gone – she sniffed. "Who I am could never allow that – I wish I could but..." Her voice trailed away, thoughts battling inside her eyes.

"Oh we have no intention of leaving just yet," said Bentley, "We're going to help subdue these thugs and then we'll go to help Sly. I am not cold-hearted enough to leave you in this mess."

"Yes," said Murray, "That is why we are different from Raleigh: all for one and one for all. That is the motto of the Cooper Gang, as founded by Sly. No one gets left behind."

"No one is forgotten," whispered Carmelita, more to her own self.

She thought of her parents, killed so suddenly like that. She had been left behind, forced to live on her own. She never had the full warmth and love of a family growing up. Her two sides welled up within her: the side which told her to enact the law no matter what.

Then there was the other side that told her to follow her heart. The side that battled within her about Cooper, and how she could not love him. No matter how noble he was, even the most minimal crime was still a crime. She could not compromise that. She felt pain inside, pain because she could not decide, not even tell herself were he her path really came to. And once the again the black and white curtain came down inside her head. Her parents – cold and lifeless in their graves – put there by an unspeakable act of selfishness and villainy. This made her angry at Cooper too. Was he insensitive to the pains that she had - not that he actually knew? Just by fraternizing with that world he associated himself with such acts. Reason tried to well up inside her, but her mind became hazy as tears escaped her eyes. How could people do this? She was angry because Cooper could not see sense, see that she could be with him, and even love him, if he just gave up being a thief. She felt frustration with Sly, frustration with herself.

Her mind blocked out all reason. The fight going on around her bruised her ears. Her feelings were running rampart and she did not know what to make of them. To be angry at Cooper or truly recognise him for what he was, for what he was as his own person? She just didn't know: her mother was no longer there to comfort her, tell her it was all okay. Finally, this thought drove the darkness from her mind. Cooper was different, Cooper could be changed. He surely struggled internally, almost seemingly lonely in his world. He could understand. There must be so much that she did not know either.

Her anger at him suddenly felt unjustified beyond the usual interactions between them: those of inspector and thief. Cooper was here for a reason, with a goal. There was something he aimed to retrieve, something beyond the price of money and gold. He was here because of his own family. The thought stirred in her mind that The Five must have been the ones who killed his parents. That must be why he was here: because he too was in conflict with himself.

He grappled with the thought of his lost parents, likely because he never wished to forget them. He too wanted to make them proud, just as she did to hers. But their difference was that he was destined to be a thief, a master thief according to Bentley. But nonetheless, he must really care – because he had had a family. His friends were his family now, and she could not tear that apart until she must. Compassion was also her duty. That was why she could not be angry with him: because he had never thought of committing the true crimes of the thugs she chased.

Deep down, Cooper was just a lovable rogue, out for some fun. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks: how could she ever decide if her life was always like this? In constant fear of disappointing herself: from having faith, in trusting her feelings. What she really lacked was someone to truly love her. How could she trust a thief? And she knew that the one raccoon, who could give that love to her, would always be just out of reach; because she could never know whether to trust. This was why she wept.

"Ah Carmelita?" questioned Bentley, "Are you all right – you seem a little distressed. What conflict is troubling you?"

"Oh, please excuse me – it was nothing," she said. She wiped away her tears and brushed the back of her glove on her sleeve. "Just please make sure you do return to Sly; I can't bear the thought of him dead at the hands of these criminals." She turned away from them and Bentley thought he heard snuffling sobs. The sounds of the surrounding fight seemed to fade and become superfluous to what he had just witnessed and heard.

Had he really heard correctly? Had Carmelita really just said what he thought she did? He stared amazedly at the girl shaking a little before him. This was a side of her he had never seen before and he guessed that anyone rarely did. Was this what she was actually like behind that tough and hardened exterior?

He felt himself sniff a little and a tear escaped him. The real Carmelita was nothing like he imagined. Pain and regret seemed to plague the poor girl, just like in Sly. This made him suspect that Sly was keeping many things secret: things which he did not want to tell his friends. If only he could glimpse the actual Carmelita, the girl who might have loved him. But he knew that it could never be truly so, not while Sly was a thief.

He felt confused and somewhat complicated; he could not know what to say. He felt he should say something, but just didn't know what. He now found himself thinking how incredible it was that he was here, sympathising for someone very different to himself. She was lonely, Sly was lonely. He could tell that she was always at war with herself, never satisfied that she actually knew what her life had in store. He was lost for words, trying to think of what he could say – to comfort her perhaps -, when she stood up.

Again she was businesslike and back to her military demeanour. The old Carmelita had returned and the veil had been drawn. The Carmelita he had known for those fleeting seconds had vanished, concealed in her hard and tough exterior. For this moment now, she did not exist. But Bentley knew that there would be times, many more times in the future when the true Carmelita revealed herself. It would be just at the right moment - just when she was really needed the most – when Sly needed her. She cleared her throat and he snapped back to attention, realising there was a fight going on.

"Well, no good will be done standing here," she said brusquely, "We have to show these lugs who is boss around here. I for one am not to be pushed around."

"The Murray agrees," growled Murray, "No one can withstand the power of my muscle. When my fists come flying..." His voice faded away as his pupils dilated dramatically. Then he bellowed out at the top of his voice: "Look out behind you."

Bentley's eyes widened in shock as he saw Johnson barrel up behind Carmelita, a venomous glint in his eye. He issued an inhuman screech, then a long and drawn-out war cry, before he hurled himself upon her. She slammed to the ground with the mountain of flesh on top of her. One plate-sized hand shot out and grabbed the choker at her throat. The over wrenched at her top. Her vision blurred but she shook her head to focus. He began to lift her from the grass.

But this time she was ready: she clutched her shock pistol in her right hand. She swung the weapon around and pointed it into his navel. She fired once and plugged him with a blast of electricity, causing him to gasp in anguish. He toppled over and his great arms swung about, knocking the pistol from her grip. It sailed over some heads and landed somewhere out of sight. Pierre dived out of the morass of bodies and cuffed the monster. Then he dived away again, another walrus after him. Three down – seven to go.

Bentley and Murray watched, as Carmelita followed Pierre back to the fight. They both stared at each other briefly, but where again interrupted when Bentley heard a strangled and very familiar yell. His head jumped around and he saw Sergeant Higgins, clutched in the grip of a brute that must be six-foot five or more. He waved the unfortunate man above his head like a basketball, before throwing him to the ground. There was a sickening crunch. The assailant began to bear down upon the Labrador. Higgins could only let out a low and piteous moan, like an injured kitten, unable to face his opponent.

Without thinking of what he was doing, Bentley rushed forwards – Murray bellowing something incoherent behind him – and lunged. He slid along the moist grass and pounced before Higgins' crumpled body. He could only hear him moan and groan, still unable to speak. He put himself between the walrus and his would-be-victim. The walrus leered at him, unsure of how to take this, before deciding that a good old punch would do the trick. He brought the fist crashing down and Bentley ducked, his glasses knocked eschew by the blow. Murray screamed again but was instantly best upon by another thug. Bentley stared up at his own opponent, who wielded a knife and pistol. The pistol pointed at Higgins – the knife held at Bentley's throat. It tickled his Adam's apple and he swallowed, sweating profusely.

The hulk smiled in victory and cocked back the hammer of his pistol. He pushed the knife inwards, a small dot of crimson appearing at its point. Bentley let out an involuntary yelp. The walrus gave a hissing giggle, his slight paunch wobbling as he did. Then Bentley had his chance. He leapt like a cobra and seized the walrus' wrist. He then twisted his grip, forcing the walrus to drop his knife. He screeched at the turtle and plunged the pistol into his chest. He tried to fire, but Bentley grabbed the nozzle and forced it up. A shower of bullets burst into the sky with a brief cacophony of bangs.

His thoroughly enraged assailant flung the empty weapon away and made a grab for Higgins' throat. Higgins' eyes fluttered open and he gaped in fear at the man sailing towards him, his fingers groping for his neck. Then he saw Bentley throw himself across the path and swing a fist into the goon's face. It rammed home with a surprisingly loud thump. The walrus made no sound, but just collapsed on the spot, moving no more apart from a twitch. Higgins was gobsmacked. Bentley goggled down at his own fist, amazed at what he had just done. With one foul blow he had downed the bloke: when Murray was so much stronger than he.

"Bentley?" rasped Higgins. "That was you – you just saved my life and punched that guy in the face?"

"Yeah, I guess so," said Bentley, sounding just as surprised. "But I couldn't just watch him kill you. I had to do something. Anyway, we had a deal remembered?"

"Yes, I do remember," whispered Higgins, as Bentley helped him up, "I remember making that promise to you not more than two hours ago. I guess I should hold your part fulfilled then."

"Not necessarily," said Bentley, blushing. "But if you would like to, be my guest. I could just not stand by and let you die. I would be breaking my oath as a member of the Cooper Gang. If there ever is an innocent life in danger, do what you can to save it. I value any life above all – that is always the most important principal for me. The lives of my close friends I often end up saving anyhow."

"Well how about that," exclaimed Higgins, "I guess Cooper really would rely on your brains in the field. It's just too bad that you happen to be aiding a thief."

"I made myself clear on this," retorted Bentley, "My friends and I may be thieves, but we're nothing like the monsters you would deal with. We would never kill, never endanger an innocent life or steal from the common man. We are different in that respect because we value the true skills to be a thief. We do not seek personal empowerment or gain in what we take, not in a monetary way. That is our true value."

"I have to admit that's true," said Higgins, groaning a little, "Time and again we have pursued you, yet never have you intended to endanger the lives of innocent people." He trailed off, a pained expression lighting his face. "It's just that I have trouble with this honourable thief idea: ever since the deaths of my own parents."

"I sympathise with you," said Bentley, placing a hand on his shoulder, "But the world is not black and white: there cannot really be good without bad. It just so happens that Sly, Murray and I happen to be somewhere in between. I cannot deny that we do bend the rules – so to speak – but while never committing those extreme atrocities that make a true villain. I am proud to be part of the Cooper legacy, because it can take both into account."

"I suppose," muttered Higgins faintly – he still seemed unsure. "But good must be always there to counter-balance the bad. That is what I believe."

"And I agree," Said Bentley, "But bad always accompanies good, for the world will never be an entirely ideal place. There will always be those who seek power: those fuelled by hatred and jealousy, going to any length to seize it. This is as The Fiendish Five do. To avoid one's own corruption, understanding both sides can be invaluable – as Sly would."

"As long as that does not lead to corrupting yourself," said Higgins. "Going too far would cross that delicate line. That is what Interpol is here for: complete and fair justice free of penetration."

"Yes, and that is because you can love," said Bentley, "That is because you understand compassion. Do you not see? That is the difference to Sly, why he never has been corrupted. One who understands what it means to feel can never be a true monster. Only to let go of such emotions, to be cold and soulless, can you commit acts of atrocity. The continual relationship between Sly and Carmelita should prove that."

Higgins blinked, wondering at Bentley's words. "I see – I can guess at any rate – at what you are getting at. All my life, the feelings I had for my parents, and Carmelita as well, have kept me going; almost shielded me from these criminals. Without that I might have given in to despair."

"Exactly," said Bentley, egging him on enthusiastically, "That is what I mean. Because of Sly's love for his family, he has continued to fight. Because of the love Murray and I have shown him. You may notice that all criminals in this world never have real friends – they are all isolated from one another, never to trust as we do."

"Yes, yes I see," said Higgins, "Criminals never trust each other properly: organised crime is always based entirely on deception and trickery. They never think to trust each other, because they lack the ability to understand. Any conflict they have is only kept to themselves, locker away to feed on their fears and eat away at the darkest parts of their heart. Only to let those feelings go can you be, be true. Someone who lives on jealously and hatred is not really living."

"That is the point we make," said Bentley, "While the Cooper Gang is neither all good nor bad, we can comprehend compassion and love. We care for, and trust each other. Yes, we may have a little fun from time to time, but never without compromising our moral values. That is the whole structure of the Cooper line: value the skills to be a thief, but never just for what you get out of it. If were really after just personal or material wealth and gain, we would not act as we do. We could simply knock down all in our way and take it. But we do not because we value the consequences of our actions."

"I never thought I would hear it," admitted Higgins, "I never thought I would hear a thief say such a thing. I have to take my hat off to you Bentley – you have done extremely well for yourself. You can value qualities that come from both sides. I will always find it hard to comprehend such an idea. But I know now how you feel, a little corner of who you actually are. Even though I have to turn you in, as says my duty, I am glad that I got to know you in that way."

"I understand," whispered Bentley, "I acknowledge that is what you must do. But I am glad that there are those able to understand us: with that we can stand united against the real evil of the world. I think Carmelita knows this, but the conflict within her makers it difficult. She is at war with her feelings." He thought briefly.

"I dare say this is because she has feelings for Sly: she cannot comprehend loving a thief, no matter who he is. She finds it hard to understand that Sly is really interested in the skills of being a thief, not the material gain. He has never been interested in extortion of the people, a concept which she cannot separate from a straight criminal. She wishes to love Sly, I think, but the extreme dedication imbued in her stops that from happening. Until she can open her mind to the idea, she may never truly settle her pain."

"Poor Carmelita," said Higgins, "I can tell she is embroiled in self-turmoil. It could be because she has that extreme emotional attachment, to her friends and family, which has kept her from giving in to despair. That is where her frustration with Cooper comes from: he blurs the line between black and white. She has not yet understood that things are not simple as that. She fears to do so would mean she could not do her duty."

''Case in point," said Bentley, 'She is confused by her feelings because she does not understand Sly, whom she most persistently tales. I think that is why she does persist: because she longs to discover what that connection between them is. When she can understand that connection and let Sly reveal his true nature, then she can realise that she can remain loyal to her duty, but not suffer in silence. She has to confront her feelings, especially with who she feels most strongly towards."

"I realise that," said Higgins, "But even if she will understand, she will never give up chasing Cooper, not while he is a thief."

"I know that," said Bentley, "But she will at least understand that crucial part of him. Once she knows that, then she will be there at the most crucial moments, when Sly really needs her. There may always be that relationship between them, but that is how they relate as they are. Even Sly admits to me that being a thief would only be half as fun without Carmelita. He needs her, she needs him: and that amplifies what I have always tried to say. We need to have love, because that separates us from committing true villainy."

"Yes, but..." Higgins said, his voice faltering under Bentley's gaze.

"I do not say that we are perfect, because we are not," said Bentley, "We are neither all good nor truly bad. It is what we value that counts, what the Coopers have always valued, that make us different. And the day that code of honour is compromised, the day a single innocent life is lost because of our cause, the name would crumble. It could no longer exist."

'Then I will keep my promise," said Higgins bravely, "If you keep yours: if you never break that code. For that is what separates you and I see that now. I can keep my promise to you because I can trust you and your intentions are honest."

"Thank you," said Bentley, "Now we have both kept our word. We have shown our trust of each other, which is exactly what I hoped. I could not have hoped for more. There will always be an ally for you Higgins, here in the Cooper Gang, because you trust. Maybe with your continual assistance, we can destroy the five who have taken loved ones away from us."

"I am honoured," said Higgins, "I see now that I made no mistake in trusting you."

"Oh yes and..." But Bentley was forced to bring an abrupt end to the conversation as a dagger, twelve-inches long, soared over his head. Murray lumbered into view and out of it again, entangled amid a swarm of walruses. While they had been talking, both had completely forgotten the fight happening around them.

Four were down, including the brute Bentley had punched, but six of them were ready to keep on fighting. Each walrus could take two or even three opponents at once without blinking an eye. Pierre rushed forwards with a second officer, only to be batted back by an arm like a tree trunk. Higgins darted away to stop one of his comrades from being squashed under the feet of one. He pulled him out of the way as the goon rumbled over the spot. Murray was in the thick of the action, punching all the heads he could reach.

"If there is a head that needs to be punched," he yelled over the noise, "Then you can rely on me to punch it." Right afterwards, he delivered a punch to the head of a walrus.

But on and on the battle raged - the rain continued to pour down on them all, drenching anything it touched. It almost seemed to exaggerate by their continual resistance. Even now Sir Raleigh must be fuming; while faraway his master was boiling with rage. Bentley ducked into the fray, helping Higgins trip up a great lug bristling with guns and ammunition. Pierre jumped past again, firing his pistol towards another scramble of officers and thugs. Suddenly Bentley felt his left foot hit something hard and he slipped, the object spinning away. He peered over and saw that it was Carmelita's shock pistol.

Carmelita herself was still engaged in the middle of it all, ducking and weaving by any fist or foot. She dived beneath a walrus and kicked at the small of his back, forcing him to totter forwards clumsily. His companion tried to swing a blow at Carmelita, but instead succeeded in punching the head of his comrade. Both of them sagged into a great heap, writhing to untangle their great bodies. Two officers were sent flying clear across the field as another walrus charged towards her. He was the biggest of them all, almost seven feet high.

The beast's shadow fell over her like a dark cloak. His great hand swiped at her, its fingers groping, reaching for her dark-blue curls of hair. She weaved away and avoided his grasping clutches. He flailed about and shot forwards again, this time clutching at her hip-length ponytail. He grabbed it and pulled tight, yanking her back. Pierre was pinned against a rock face by his own nemesis, unable to intervene. Higgins yelled, but found himself beset upon by another brick wall of a man. Bentley's head shot up, but he twisted forwards onto the grass as a punch hit him in the back. His glasses flew off and landed in a fern. Scrabbling about desperately – his vision hazed and blurring with water – Bentley felt his way towards the spot. Murray bellowed with wrath in the background.

The towering walrus meanwhile was reeling Carmelita in by the hair. He was looking gleeful as a fisherman who had caught a whopping trout. He pulled her close to his chest and hoisted her up by the belt. Suddenly she flipped upside down, dangling from his grip. The rain ran down her stomach and chest, splashing onto her cheeks and into her eyes. Her head began to throb as the blood rushed to it. She could feel the rain beginning to drench her coat and blouse beneath. But she had had enough of being tossed around like a fish. She lashed out sharply with her right leg, catching her captor on the nose. He choked – coughing up some phlegm and saliva – before he let her fall. Again she landed on the ground with a thud.

Bentley had found his glasses. He reached towards them – hanging on a twig in the bush – and waved his hand about. They seemed to dance about before his eyes, twisting and contorting in a bizarre and blurry fashion. Finally he plunged his hand forward and grabbed the glasses. He placed them back on his nose, wiping of a little water and grit, and squinted to re-focus. Carmelita had stood up, standing over the pathetic pile of heaving muscle that was her opponent. He groaned weakly and shuddered. The great lug had clearly never thought to be beaten by a girl: probably the biggest mistake he would ever make. She shook her head in disgustful pity and then she leaned down and cuffed his wrists. She heaved him over the grass and dumped him by Lane's prostrate shape.

Then Murray burst out of the crowd, two walruses piling on top of him. One clutched at his neck while the other tried to grab him about the ankles. Like a tank he dragged both brutes with him over the grass. One walrus then stood up and attempted to slug him in the back. Bentley screeched and Murray whirled round, parrying the blow with one arm. He then swung his fist into the man's face, making him collapse at his feet.

Meanwhile, the other walrus still clutched at Murray's thick neck. He hauled himself up and forced the hippopotamus to teeter and topple forwards. The pair of them slammed to the ground. The walrus rose upwards and menacingly swung a dagger over Murray. But Murray growled in fury and lunged upwards, grabbing at his wrist. With an all-mighty effort he twisted his hands and the dagger spun ten feet into the air. As his opponent's mouth lolled open, Murray yanked hard and bought him spinning through the air. There issued a strange hiccupping sound as the walrus hit the ground. He was out like a candle. One could almost see the stars and canaries dancing about his head.

Three walruses were left at the centre of the clearing. Five of the eight officers – including Higgins and Pierre – were marshalling two of them in a ring. As they surrounded the pair, they grimaced in hate at their enemies. All of the officers bore either cuts or scrapes. Two of them had black eyes while four of them had cuts that were bleeding slightly. All looked battered and tired from fighting. One officer lay in the corner, groaning quietly as a younger recruit bound his ankle with banges and plaster. Pierre raised his hand slowly and signalled to his men. They all drew out handcuffs and pistols, edging forwards carefully. Carmelita stood briskly to attention, carefully watching the scene. She scanned for her shock pistol, but could not see it. Was someone missing, she thought?

"We don't want to hurt you," declared Pierre carefully, "We just want to take you into custody without any fuss. Come willingly, without resistance, and we shall be lenient with your punishment. Men like you can be god men – but only if you chose it."

"That's right," said Higgins, "Make a sensible chose for once in your lives." He thought of Sly Cooper as he said this: risking his life to bring down these villains, to save those who he cared about. This was indeed the true villainy they had to fight. Cooper was not just an object of Interpol's desire, but he could also be a friend and ally. Not like these men.

"We don't give two hoots to your rules coppers," exclaimed the squatter walrus. "We are standing here to fight until we can stand no more. Come and have a go then."

"Yeah," guffawed the other, "Try and take us in. I'll give you a good challenge." He patted his pistol with absurd affection.

"Okay then," sighed Pierre in frustration, "But you're forcing my hand. I would really prefer not to do this." He raised his own weapon, the other officers following suit. The twosome within the circle tensed their bodies, ready for the onslaught. Then there came a thin, piteous wail. It sounded almost so small and helpless that one could imagine a small child in discomfort. Everyone whirled around – even the walruses in the circle – to face the source of the noise. In a wave of one, they all gasped in horror.

The third missing thug had slunk out of his hiding place in the laurel bushes. He had snuck up upon the young recruit bandaging his superior's leg and seized him by the back of the collar. He now hoisted him high up into the air, his legs flailing and kicking as he yelled. Carmelita let out a low moan and Bentley uttered some words of shock. Murray just gaped, still holding up one catatonic walrus by the scruff of the neck. He let him drop to the ground with a bang.

Carmelita recognised the scrawny youth: his name was Winthrop, Detective Winthrop. He was just twenty-one, having graduated at an early age from law school. He was a red panda with startlingly green eyes and a crop of closely-shaved red hair on his head. His face bunched up with freckles, which was dripping with perspiration. His velvet-red bowtie hung off of his neck like a great butterfly. The back of his well starched, crisp white shirt became creased in the walrus's grasp. His bottle-green trousers were being drenched by the rain. His bushy tail brushed the ground beneath his feet.

The poor boy had only just been recruited six months ago, this being his first major assignment. Carmelita looked at him in concern, for she had always nurtured a soft spot for him. Privately she thought that he had a mammoth-sized crush on her; the way in which he fumbled and knocked things over when she was around. She couldn't help liking him for that. But she couldn't concentrate on that now. What she had to do was rescue him from his captor's steel grasp. His face was pinched in discomfort, which now began to turn blue.

"Alright – nobody move," bellowed the walrus clutching Winthrop by the throat. "If any of you make a single step, this here kid is getting his brains blown clean out."

He raised his pistol to Winthrop's head, pressing the butt into his temple. "Don't budge a muscle or I shoot. You too girly, I can see what you're thinking." He sneered at Carmelita. "Now let my boys go and maybe I'll allow the shrimp to live." He shook the red panda back and forth violently.

"You monster," whispered Carmelita in rage, "Bartering innocent life when we would never dream to do so. Don't squeeze that trigger if you know what is good for you. Don't you dare take the life of that innocent boy, you killer?" She clenched her fists tightly – gritting her teeth – almost shredding through their fabric. The strangler before her cocked an eyebrow up in mock amusement.

"Close your lid gorgeous," he said, "This kid's life is on the line unless you let my boys go. Then we may or may not kill you. It depends whether or not I feel like wasting my time."

"Enough of this thug!" said Pierre defiantly, "Put my young recruit down now. You will only make this worse for all of you if you do this."

"That's right," said Bentley and Murray in unison. "At least make a sensible choice for once in your life. Try to be compassionate instead of brutal."

"Shut up idiots," drawled strangler, "You pretentious thieves are stupid, naive and ignorant. Your piteous code of honour and nobility is nothing to me – nothing to my master or our empire. You are hardly a thief when you are good and kind, but you steal. That's just a bunch of bunk. Only a real thief embraces what it is to act without compassion, without fear of loss. You have weaknesses, you are not real thieves, you just pretend. And that's all you'll ever be, while you cling to love. You're hardly worth my breath, insignificant as you are."

"I would not want your words," said Bentley simply, "Coming out of a mouth as dirty as yours. So you needn't bother your head with it." He grimaced in disgust, but had a second thought. "Besides, although you cannot see it, because of my compassion – and that of my friends – we have never threatened a life like you do now. What point is there in being a thief if you have nothing to gain but material wealth; if you fuel yourself on hatred and jealousy? The true art in being a thief is the skill involved, not what you get out of it. And the upmost importance of that skill is that no innocent life shall be lost. I could never live with myself if I had snuffed out an innocent life: because I could never deserve it, something I had stolen. But why would you understand?"

"The Murray thinks," Murray butted in, "That a less civilised thief would have pulled out your tusks by now. Thankfully Sly is a real Cooper, or you might not be standing here, alive right now. Of course – if this was you – you would have killed me by now."

"Enough of this rubbish," squealed the strangler, "What would I give to your prattle? It's all balderdash – the whole lot of it. Why am I even standing here talking about this tripe?" He waved his paws every which ways, flinging Winthrop about like a rattle. "Cooper is a thief, and if he would not do that to me, then he is weak. If he cannot kill he is afraid to dirty his hands. He is cowardly, cowardly because he would not steal from the common man. His honour is that greatest flaw. If he accepted that, my master may never have slaughtered his father – like a pig!" He guffawed and slapped a knee with his left hand.

"Cowardly you think?" Carmelita spat coldly, "Because he would not kill or maim: cowardly for taking on criminals like you? Cowardly because he knows what it is to be honourable?" Her chest swelled like a bullfrog. "The real truth is that you hide behind the feet of your masters, terrified of retribution. A true coward is one who kills because he fears for himself and his own life alone. It takes the greatest courage to know when taking a life is necessary." She thought briefly. "True courage is to know not when to take a life, but when to spare it: a talent which you sorely lack, and which Cooper possesses. That is what makes you the coward." She arched her body, fixing his rapidly dilating pupils in hers.

"Also being the quality which makes Sly a hero," whispered Bentley to himself. "When he knows that he is really needed, just like Carmelita. When his true nature must reveal itself - our true nature - that we really do care." Once again he marvelled too himself. For this smaller moment in time, the true Carmelita had revealed herself. Only for that split-second, but she had definitely been present in that clearing. The Carmelita who struggled beneath her hardened exterior, the part of her that understood Sly's love.

But also the part that battled with reality: that it could never be. She just could not accept him as a thief. The other side told her to come to her senses – not to follow the fanciful dreams of her heart. She would always be after him, but partly because she felt connected to him. It would take just one act of love, one act of pure trust, to show that Sly really felt affection.

Then, at least, she could trust that he was honest in his intentions. One side of her could realise that she had not misplaced her affections. But it was a delicate balance: while Sly remained a thief, she may never understand that the world was not black and white. That was what she had to understand. Then, in the hour of need, she would be there – always. And one day things may be different. She would understand. She could do her duty, yet allow herself to have feelings. What happened next was her, Sly's choice: maybe they could be together.

"Right," hollered strangler, "I have had enough of your impertinence." His speech shocked Bentley out of contemplation. "Thanks to you beautiful, this little squirt is going to get his brains splattered all over these rocks. My boys are going to make you watch too. Suffer for what you said. Know that it was you who brought about his death."

"Carmelita...!" wailed Winthrop piteously, "Please, save all these innocent lives. Let this man kill me if it means saving your life. Get everyone out of here."

"Quite lover boy," hissed his captor, "You'll be out of the picture permanent like in just a moment. Don't you worry about that? Then it's good-bye to your luscious girl." He haggled with apparent pleasure at his doing.

"You know very well that's not going to happen," said Carmelita. "I would never leave a cohort of mine behind to die. I will not let that happen. Now stop talking nonsense so that we can save you." She admired at the boy's courage, his obvious attempt at gallantry. Yes, she was sure that his heart practically imploded when she was around. She felt bad that she could not reciprocate her feelings: she gave her love to someone else. Someone who had snuck into her heart and stuck there: she could only think of him as a worthy friend, but rarely more so. But she would never give up his life for anything: not now or ever.

"Really...?" he whispered, "You would do that for me? But I am just a single life, not worth the so many to Interpol that may be lost."

"Tommyrot," exclaimed Carmelita. Her Spanish accent began to slide out amidst her rising exhilaration. 'The day when Interpol looses an innocent life that could be saved, then justice would be flawed. I will not willingly give up a life without dire need. You are only young, and while you have life pumping in your veins, you deserve to live it - as do so many that can be selfless as you. I shall not surrender a life to be wasted. That is what gives me hope in overcoming these villains." The strangler began to quail under her look.

"Damn it!" screamed Pierre, "Stop pointing that gun at Winthrop. Do you hear me? For heaven's sake stop pointing that gun at the boy. You shall not threaten my men, who I really care for. You do not want to do this."

"Of course I want to do this," said strangler incredulously, "In fact, I will right now."

"There is no point Pierre," said first Bentley, then Carmelita. "This cowardly brute will never understand, not while he insists on killing wilfully. I hoped we would not have to, but I now see that it is necessary. We must go that extra mile." The mule deer acknowledged these words with a nod. He had a grim expression on his face. The strangler tightened his grasp on the trigger, pushing the gun butt into Winthrop's head. All of the officers drew their weapons and turned to face the villain. They all looked saddened by what they had to do.

"Now, this is your last chance," said Pierre, "Make the right choice – a good choice."

But the walrus only leered in a grotesque manner, refusing a verbal reply. Pierre stared at him in a mixture of bewilderment and polite confusion. Then he was clubbed viciously over the head by a hard object. He collapsed under the blow, one of the two accomplices standing over him. He clasped a truncheon. When everyone's attention had diverted, the twosome had snuck out of the circle and surprised the captain. He twisted around and looked up to see the thug about to end his life for good. But Murray rocketed forwards and lobbed a great fist into his cranium. The villain crumpled in a forlorn heap, completely out to it.

"Thank you," muttered Pierre, "You have saved my life now, just like your friend."

"Don't mention it," said Murray, "That guy would have crushed you – I won't have it."

Then all at once, everything happened. The second goon rushed forwards, propelled into the crowd of officers, swinging his fist at any head he saw. Carmelita lunged for Winthrop, who was swung away by his captor. Bentley ran over to help, and then saw something bright shining beneath Winthrop's feet; something a brilliant scarlet-red. It was Carmelita's shock pistol. He knew what to do.

"The shock pistol Winthrop," he bellowed through the tumult. "Get the shock pistol."

The red panda could hardly make out what he said, as the strangler was shaking him so much that he must have been going cross-eyed. His face almost looked a sickly shade of chartreuse from being sung up and down. But he had heard him and he had understood. His green eyes darted towards the weapon beneath his feet. The walrus – busy roughing him up – had not noticed it at all.

I'm just glad that we only steal from master criminals, thought Bentley; ducking a punch from behind him. I could never bear to take from innocent, hard working people who actually earn their living. It would just not be right: there would be no skills involved and you could never feel you deserved what you took. I would be just another – we would be just some more dishonourable low-life punks. What would be the point in stealing if there was no challenge, especially if you weren't liberating what you took? That is what these fiends don't have that we really do. They don't have a deliberate purpose. They delight in creating pain, suffering or torment – just for the pleasure. That is the real monstrosity behind all this. While I am breathing, I will stop it. Especially this great lug right here.

The great lug swung Winthrop's body right over Bentley's head, his legs flailing. Bentley toppled backwards, only to be scooped up by Carmelita as she shot up behind him. She gave him a meaningful look and then pounced again. She sprung upon the back of the strangler, who grunted, reeling around to snag her ankle. He growled in anger and howled as she danced away out of his reach. She grabbed a pair of handcuffs from her belt, jangling them about on the ring finger of her left hand. But she could not get a good perch. The walrus launched a barrage of blows to deflect her landing.

The other remaining goon was causing a proper amount of havoc amidst the officers. He shot about like a kamikaze cannon ball. He hurled his heavy body at all of his opponents, who were force to retreat in droves as his bulk bowled them over. They all shouted desperate commands, trying to overcome this wall of a man. But he was persistent and just kept barrelling on. He was like a tank. There was a cacophony of grunts and knuckles on flesh, while the clang of pistols and other weapons rung loudly. Finally Murray squared his shoulders and hurried in to join the throng. The two men were fixed in each other's gaze and began circling each other. The officers spread out in a ring again, holding their breath. Neither of the two attempted any blows. Now there were two fights: Murray, the officers and his opponent – Winthrop, Carmelita, Bentley and the strangler.

The strangler was gasping and sweating heavily now, perspiration trickling down his visage. He eyed Bentley and Carmelita warily, not taking his gaze from either one. He failed to notice Winthrop wiggling his foot over the shock pistol. His toes stretched in his shoes, groping for the weapon. Then the edge of his foot caught it and he bought his leg up in a wide arc. A grin of victory spread over his face as the pistol soared high in the air and came down again. He made a snatch in space and caught it smoothly. The pistol came about to point at the face of the strangler. He saw it and his face dropped by a degree.

"You wouldn't dare," he said.

"Not unless I needed to," said Winthrop.

"Huh, like you have the courage," the walrus taunted. "You won't squeeze that trigger."

"Oh won't I?" said Winthrop. "Well I will if it means saving my friends." He slammed his index finger down upon the trigger.

An aura – a flash of brilliant blue light – bloomed in the rain-soaked darkness. A paralysing pulse of electricity burst from the pistol and smacked full-on into the walrus's face. His mouth gesticulated with sound, unable to speak. Then his grip slackened and Winthrop slithered to the ground. Quickly he picked himself up, as his captor came down to earth with a thundering rumble. He lay there in a stupor; only twitching and jerking slightly. He was knocked out like a candle. Carmelita goggled at him for a moment, and then smiled sheepishly at Winthrop. He smiled back, hearts blooming in his mind's eye.

Behind them, Murray still grappled with the only man left. Both were panting and gasping, using their broad shoulders to push against each other's bodies. Bentley coughed politely, which awakened Carmelita and Winthrop. Both whipped about, now alert and attentive. When Winthrop saw what was going on, he raised the pistol again. He fired twice this time, two bolts of blue electricity streaming over the grass. Both bolts caught Murray's enemy in the back, causing him to fold over backwards and keel down in a heap. He stirred no more, oblivious to everyone around him. Murray gazed at them and they all gave withered smiles. It was finally over – at last. The bodies of the walruses were strewn everywhere.

All of the able-bodied officers began striding between them, fitting cuffs to their wrists. When all were bound, Bentley and Murray helped drag them to a rock face, where they dumped them down in a corner. They could stay there until it was time to leave. But what was the plan of action now?  
All present still seemed harried and distressed from the events that had just transpired. They needed just a little longer to think up another plan of attack. Raleigh was likely to be very displeased at this turn of events. They had to penetrate his operation and stop the madman before it was too late. Sly was still in danger. There was not time to waste.

"Well," said Carmelita, turning business like, "I may need my shock pistol back."

"Oh, right away," Winthrop said bashfully. "Here you are Carmelita." He flushed a brilliant colour of crimson and handed her the pistol with two fingers. She took it, smiling at him sweetly. He sighed and sank into a heap; overcome by his feelings. She slotted the pistol back into its holster, catching a glimpse of Higgins beyond her. He looked a little disgruntled himself. She shot him a conspiratorial wink. He blinked and then returned the gesture. Were all of her cohorts in love with her – what next? But enough monkey business. They were relying on her to take charge.

"All right then," she said with authority, "We have very limited time and we cannot waste it. Everyone who is able should come with me. We need to apprehend Raleigh before he can do any more damage. Detain Sly Cooper if you find him, but do not harm him. Those of you, who are too injured to fight, stay here with the vehicles. I will be back with my team shortly. Now, who is with me?" Higgins' hand shot up.

"I am," he said.

"I am too," Pierre said quickly.

"And so are we," said Bentley, speaking for Murray besides himself.

About three more officers – including Winthrop – mumbled their consent. That left two officers to remain with the vehicles. There was Captain Reynaud, whose leg Winthrop had been binding. Then there was Officer Michelin, who had several cuts over his handsome face. Carmelita spared a glance for the panther and pug, putting feeling into her expression. They nodded, indicating it was all okay, and she waved back with a certain air of trepidation. Then she turned away and her contingent snapped to attention.

"Buena suerte," whispered Carmelita, so that none of them could hear. Then in a louder voice she said, "And have courage. Come now everyone, we must go." She had a final inspiration. "Just remember, don't compromise who you are in the face of adversity. Always remember that you fight for compassion and justice."

Everyone nodded. Carmelita stole a look at Bentley and Murray, turning away hurriedly. She would have to arrest them when the job was done. She felt sad, possible guilt, but what could she do? She liked them and respected them. But they must understand that she could never entirely befriend them. She thought they knew, guessed, and understood this. But for now, at least, they could be allies. In the future things could be different. She would see all of them again. But what was she even thinking? She had no idea how she could feel this way.

She would see Sly again. Her thoughts of the raccoon drove her onwards, onwards to follow her path. She would go further along it now, to see where it led. She was excited to find out what was in store for her. Maybe a few days, weeks, months, or even years; but she would get there in the end. Her parents, all the people who had died for her, would have wanted that. And again – now – she was not going to let them down. She could make her own choices and decisions. She changed back to her official, business-like self.

"Okay everyone," she commanded, "There is precious time left to us. It is time to go." The squad of men fronted by the Inspector pattered forwards as one; they all marched into the darkness of the rain. Carmelita tugged convulsively at the jet-black choker around her neck. The group became swallowed up by the enormously towering cliffs. Who knew what was to come? But Carmelita didn't care. Whatever was coming, she was ready to take it on; just as Sly had done before her.

She had to remind herself that, just because he stole from only master criminals, it didn't make him anything special. Thieves were thieves in her books. Even though they shared a common enemy – his defiance of the malicious five – she could not accept Sly into her personal life. Heck, why was she even so attached to the thief? His parents had been killed by the five – was it possibly why...? Maybe she would know sooner than she thought: whether he may be changed.

This definitely would not be the final occasion on which they met.

#

Blue sparks, more blue sparks. Sly stared attentively beyond the shallows, murky with dust and debris. But he definitely saw them – again. The symbolic blue sparks twinkled and sparkled like so many Christmas lights. His thieving instincts rose within him, keen to drive him on and re-claim what was his. Keen to stop his enemy from taking away the ones he loved. Bentley, Murray and Carmelita – yes, Carmelita said his conscience. The little voice that resided by his ear. And he would listen to that voice; he had to for the good of so, so many. The brightly crowned wreckage stretched away, beckoning him: almost as a long fingered hand bringing him imperiously onwards.

But one thing held him back. Could he hold onto his love, especially for the girl who must pursue him for justice? Maybe he had to let that go, let it go so that he would have fewer limits. No, that is out of the question said the little voice incredulously. Your love is one of your greatest attributes. You are destined to be a master thief: how can you truly be such without your compassion? Your father would be ashamed if he thought his only son would abandon feeling for desire. Desire for wealth or power - it is not you.

"Dad," whispered Sly, "I will make you proud. I will fulfil my destiny to free our family's legacy. But – Carmelita – what do I do?" He clenched his fists and stared up at the thousands of silver stars. They glinted back at him, as if his father were smiling down upon his only son. He looked at his reflection in the water, seeing his father's face.

"Son," the reflection said to him. "Do what you have always done. You are a Cooper, and you are my son. I know that you have more than greatness in you. You are so much more than these criminals think you are. Your love is not a weakness, but strength. Cherish it, and it will warm you in your darkest hours. You are destined to be a master thief." The face smiled wanly at him, before the water swirled and became his image once more.

"Wait dad, don't go," Sly called softly. The water rippled gently. "I need to know what to do. I miss you, but I feel somewhat lost. Can I really become a master thief – worthy of the Cooper name – if I love, well, have feelings for Carmelita? What can it mean –all of this? Why must it become so complicated?" He put his hands to his head and shook slightly.

The reflection in the water did not alter, but the voice spoke again within his mind; this time in his father's deeper voice.

"Remember Sly, as I always used to say, when your life revolves around pinching over people's dimes, it has to come back on one sooner or later." The voice in his head sighed. "But that is why we are Coopers. We welcome challenges and adversity, but have always overcome it in the end. Your feelings tell you that you are alive, you live for a purpose. You have family in your friends, and that is what really matters. If having affection for this girl is important to you, then it will make a world of difference."

"What, what can you mean?" questioned Sly silently. "I still feel confused."

"Ah Sly," said the voice of his father, "That is because of your feelings. You think these things because you really care about others than yourself. That has never been a staple of our enemies. Remorse is not an idea contemplated by who you face. While they can deceive themselves, they will always be corrupt. But not you – not if you resist the temptation to succumb. If you love this girl, then that is your path. That is how you will realise being a master thief, if you still choose it. After all, have you not always thought that without her, it would never be half as fun?"

"How could you know that?" said Sly slowly, taken aback.

"Why," laughed the voice, "You carry me with you in your mind and within your heart. While you live I never truly die, because you have always remembered me. You have memories of the love I could give you while I was alive. That is of utmost importance. Don't dwell on the morbidity of the present, but think of the good things, and look to the future."

"But what these fiends did," said Sly, "I could hardly forget that."

"Yet while you dwell on this," said his father, "Our enemies have as well as won. Take the events of the past and turn that into your future. This girl is in your future I should think, somewhere – even if you don't know when. Don't let the atrocities they committed erode your honour. You know that we Coopers have always been master thieves because we stuck by our code. If you remember that – and do not break it – then you will make me proud. But make a new future for yourself, you can make your own decisions."

"Well, I think that I do have feelings for her," said Sly tentatively. "But how can I express them? While I am a thief, she will never be able to completely accept me. And I count myself lucky to be chased by someone like her: however I cannot deny that I struggle with our relationship - besides my desire to become a master thief."

"There will be a time son," soothed the voice. "There will be a time for when you make that decision and only you can know when. It is up to you and no one can change that. Never let go of your feelings – hold onto them and you will never be like the fiends who killed me. At the same time, do not let your feelings get in the way of your potential. Do not dwell constantly on your troubles. You will tell her, but only when the time is right. I know you can do this son. I believed in you and I always will. Your friends believe in you and that is unaccountably important. Eventually, she will believe in you. She will realise that you can be trusted. She just has trouble admitting it to herself. There will be a time."|

"Thanks dad," said Sly, speaking aloud, "You always knew what to say." You were the wisest man I ever knew, Sly thought without words. "I will make you proud – I promise it."

"I know you will," said the voice, "I know that you will. You have always made me proud. You will be a master thief. Every Cooper before you will be proud to know that the family is safe in your hands. Your love has made you worthy. Remember that and you will always be someone to believe in. I know you can do it."

"I will," said Sly, "Your belief in me has always been the greatest gift. I will always love you, as I love Bentley and Murray. As I, ah, have feelings for Carmelita."

"I could never have a better son," said his father's voice, "Now go Sly, go forth and do what you need to do. You know what is right in your heart. Never ignore your instincts. When your feelings are of such importance, then that is a great strength. That will be your pathway to becoming a master thief. Remember that one fact: if you have chosen to love, then that is your path."

"My path?" said Sly, "Where do I follow it to?"

"You will follow it until you reach your destination. There is no problem and no solution to what you feel. There is only what you know in your heart to be right. And you will know when to express your true feelings. She will know, for she struggles to show feelings for a boy who she believes she cannot love. There will be times before that."

"I think I do know that now," said Sly deliberately. "I now know that I can follow my path as a thief – but that there will always be room for Carmelita; as long as I feel for her."

"Exactly," said the voice, "For as long as you have those feelings - you have a life ahead of you my son and the choices are yours to make. While your enemies dwell in hatred and jealousy, they cannot make those choices. But you will and you will overcome them. Go ahead and live your life – become what you are destined to be. Never let adversity hold you back. And that is how you will be a true master."

"Thanks dad," said Sly, "I will never forget. The Thievious Raccoonus will be back in the hands of a Cooper once more. I can go forth now, realising that you will always believe in me. While I believe, Carmelita will always be there for me."

"Your love is what makes everyone believe in you Sly," said his father.

"I realise that is why I believed in you," said Sly, "Because you loved me."

"Always," said his father, "Go on Sly – you have your own legend to write."

"And this is how I chose to write it," said Sly. "I understand now. I can accept my destiny, but my ultimate destiny rests in the decisions I will make. Thanks dad – and goodbye to a great father."  
"Goodbye to a greater son," said his dad's voice. "I know you will be great – you have earned this right. You are not just my son, but a wonderful and unique Cooper."  
"Just like you dad," said Sly, "You were the great man before me. I'll miss you always." The voice began to fade before Sly quickly thought of a question.

"Just one thing; is this all real, because I think it's happening all within my mind."

"Of course it's all in your mind Sly," laughed his father, 'But why in the world should that mean it is not real?" His voice faded and blew away with the wind. The stars twinkled again, a little more brightly than before.

Sly knew what his father said was true. His love for Carmelita was not a problem. It was really the next great step on his path to becoming a master thief - his next great step on realising who he truly was. And as he now knew, it would give him the greatest strength. It was meant to be in his future. And while he had that thought, he would never forget it. He could admit his love to himself. Someday he would know her past; the secrets she had to keep. Compassion drove him on: it was why he never gave up and always believed in what he fought for. He would keep on fighting, until the very end. Against evil and malevolence, he would fight for love and all that truly mattered. He would never give up, until the very end.

He fleetingly tried to imagine a scene where he and Carmelita were being married. He in a tuxedo, her in a flowing white dress by his side - Bentley and Murray sat in the pews, both sniffling into handkerchiefs. He grinned to himself and let the thought slip from his mind. Maybe one day – but not today. He would have to fight for that – but that was what made it worth fighting for. And he always would fight for that. Just like Carmelita fought beside him, every step of the journey. Until both of them reached the very end: Bentley and Murray included. His heart beat faster in his chest. Until they all reached the very end of the journey.

"Oh well," he said to himself, "Nothing will be achieved by standing here. There is work that has to be done and I must be the one to do it." He tightened the grasp on his cane, again approaching the water's edge. His boots pattered into the coolness of the shallows, the gentle white froth licking around his feet; this time he did indeed know exactly what to do.

The blue sparks burned themselves into the back of his eyes, making imprints – or so it felt – on his retinas. He closed his eyes, shutting out his feelings. He opened them again. The blue sparks were gone. He shut his eyelids a second time, mumbling under his breath and concentrating with all his will. I need a method to enter Raleigh's boat, he said within his mind. He opened his eyes once more and they were there, just as he knew they would be.

He leapt like he had never leapt before. There was a deliberate calm and purpose and his actions: he carried them out with clear intention in his thoughts. The raccoon soared through the air like a bird and touched down upon a barrel. His toes sat exactly atop the blue sparkles. The inner feeling of a spring drove him forward again, propelled him with significance in his stride. Knowing he could achieve what he desired most of all.

He was learning to become a master thief; he could feel it in his body. He was gradually absorbing the skills which would someday make him great as his father had been. This was one of the many steps he would take to get that honour; to deserve and then earn the right. He would make what his father said true: he would be a unique Cooper. And as all Coopers knew, this field practice was what had made them great. It didn't just happen overnight. Sly chuckled at his little joke. Carmelita's face floated into mind and he pressed on.

He felt proud but angry at the same time. This fiend would know what it was to lose everything. But Sly would never sink to that level. He only intended to get back what was his and foil the villain's reign of terror. But he would prove to him in the process that hatred and maliciousness could not fuel you. It would all but consume you in the end. And now that end had come for the first of The Fiendish Five. He who lives by the sword dies by the sword: an old proverb that Bentley liked repeating when he was in a whimsical mood. Bentley and Murray swam again into his thoughts. He would return for them, never leave them behind. He would rather himself perish than let that happen. Throw himself in front of an enemy to save them – save the girl he loved. Never mind that now he tried to tell himself. You can help them by doing what you must do right now.

He was drawn on by the blue lights. From the barrel he jumped to a dismembered piece of mast. His will hardening in determination, he bounced upwards and glided down upon a ragged chest, its bejewelled contents spilling into the water. From the chest he went to a plane wing – decaying with a coat of orange rust and grime – and landed soundly as before. He glanced up fleetingly, noting he was about half the distance. Perched on the lake's surface, the boat rose over him like a massive behemoth. Like David facing some monstrous mechanical goliath. A faint droning and ominous rumbling emanated from the belly of the beast. Who knew what was going on in there?

Sly focused his attention on his path, not allowing his concentration to be distracted. The plane wing dipped into the water as he used it for a launched pad, projecting himself over two metres of clear water. The treasures glinted at the rocky, kelp infested bottom. With an accompanying splosh he came down upon another barrel. He was just about where he needed to go. He finished the act with a couple more flips, twists, jumps and somersaults. Then he came down neatly and tidily in a petite wooden dingy tethered by the tremendous vessel.

Above his head swayed the twisted remnants of a rope ladder, its coils frayed and tattered. It snaked its way up to the edge of the deck. It was tethered to a thick wooden poll beside a burnished metal gate, flanked with flaming torches. A steel fence ran the edge of the deck. The other layers of the boat rose away from the edge to form the crocked appearance of a floating metropolis. But his path was still clear: multiple coils of rope dangled along the keel of the boat, each ended with a hock. This would be his way up and in. No problem for a master thief – right?

These ropes were once part of a system that hauled up Raleigh's sunken treasure. Clearly it had been abandoned, for something newer, making it safe for Sly. He craned his neck back further and could just glimpse the bulging and bloated side of the storm machine. It peeked out like some hideous creature floating in the sky. Right up there was Sir Raleigh, looking down on him as a fly he was about to squash. Sly rubbed his palms together for commencing the ascent, when a sudden eruption of noise startled him.

The water had become a foaming soup and great waves boiled outwards. Little rivulets lapped at the sides of the dinghy, rocking it back and forth. It clunked against the side of the boat and Sly struggled to maintain his balance, fighting to keep his hands on the rope he now clutched. Stabilising his footing at last, Sly gasped as a tremendous galleon broke the water's surface and floated there. It was as if a spirit had risen from the lake bed.

The great hunk of wood, its sails torn and its sides gashed by rain, writhed on the water briefly and then came to a rest. Sly breathed in a sigh of relief and turned away. He clasped the rope firmly and began to wriggle and worm his way up, the ancient vessel bobbing quietly beneath his feet. He pointed his nose upward and focused on the gate, the edge of the deck, as it become clearer through the sheets of rain.

The downpour served to make the rope slicker and harder to grip the higher he climbed. It was almost as if Raleigh was attempting to make it difficult for him; whether he knew that Sly was there or not. Sly twisted his arm around and slid the cane into the strap of his belt. He returned the hand to the rope. Flexing his body, he began to shimmy along the frayed cords once more. Acting as a serpent, Sly slithered with his sly motion to the point where the rope ended, and then he made a parallel lunge for the next. His blue gloves caught at it and he clung on. He forced himself to continue climbing – rising up higher and higher – feeling his arms ache somewhat. He slightly dreaded what would happen if he fell: drowning for sure.

But he was a Cooper and that would never happen in a month of Sundays. He managed to ignore the spurts of fiery pain that shot up his arms and down through his legs. Their weight – that of his limbs - felt like three-hundred kilograms in this slog of a climb: rarely had he had to attempt this kind of ascent before.

At last he began to near the edge, the top only about two metres, six point two feet maybe, away from his head. Just about his own height, give or take a little. With curiosity he noticed an elaborate chain and pulley system – rigged up with several platforms – that was attached to the side of the boat. It was folded almost flat against the roughly hewn wooden hull. The device must serve as a boarding ramp, able to extend out to the shore. Well, he had chosen the skilful way to enter; just how he liked it.

Like a monster emerging from the depths, Sly's bedraggled glove hovered just above the deck. Craning his neck to see what he was doing, Sly scrabbled his hand around and grasped something firm. Swinging the other hand upwards, swaying his entire body as a pendulum, Sly grasped a second hand-hold. With an almighty grunt of effort, the muscles in his chest and arms practically bulging and bursting from under his skin, he hoisted himself up. He slithered over the fence and flopped down in a heap behind it. His body seemed to follow in coils, almost deflating from the fatiguing effort in the climb. His tunic felt like it would burst from the throbbing of his muscles. He nudged himself into an alcove under a lit torch, allowing time to catch his breath and relax.

While he waited, he swiftly assessed his current predicament. It looked like the perfect location for a budding master thief to practice his skill. A sizeable forecourt lay behind the grand gates, surrounded on three sides by buildings stacked on top of each other, as if some deluded architect had gone wild. It was a mixture of past and modern, with ramparts here and there, towers and balconies, staircases and great glass windows.

Someone might have scouted all the towns in Europe to scavenge this lot; then they had dumped it all here. There were plenty of pipes and ledges for him to scamper across. Surmounted in the heart of the forecourt was a fountain, an appallingly ugly statue of some fish at its centre. The whole place was lit by torches. From the inner rumbling, Sly guessed most of the high-tech gadgets were concealed below decks. But the most high-tech of all – the storm machine way above his head – was entirely out of reach. How in a Cooper's name could he get all the way up there?

He looked back and saw the bank he had stood on when Raleigh's men had attacked him. It looked very far away in the rain. He judged himself to be about twelve metres away from the lake's surface. But it could be a lot more. He was startled by the horrendous crack as a volt of electric-silver lightning seared across the inky sky. He jerked and quivered all in a blink, jumping from his hiding place. Lightning just like that? Where in the world had that come from: just out of nowhere like that? But he lost all time to wonder when he heard a triumphant shout. Realising he was out in the open, vulnerable to sudden attack, Sly spun around to face the forecourt.  
A contingent of guards stood there, all of their eyes fixed on the raccoon who had appeared in their midst.

Some were walruses, but at least half of them were strange, squid-like men. In fact, they were squids: all of them dressed in navy overalls and all of them wielding guns and torches. They also wore severe looking leather caps. Each of the walruses carried a pair of deadly daggers, the flash of lightning reflecting off the blades. These were not normal henchmen. These looked like Sir Raleigh's most elite fighting squad, trained to deal with any threat. Trained to wipe out any threat to their master; that threat right now was Sly - they inched forwards slowly, eyeing him without flinching.

Then one man stepped forth to the front of the group. He was tall and thin with a pencil moustache. He wore a severely cut navy general's uniform and a cap on his head. All of his garments were made of dark-green nylon fabric. An absurd array of medals and pins were stuck to his lapel. Four scabbards, two at either side of his waist, hung on his belt. Each cradled an evil silver blade. A holster was tucked away behind the scabbards. Unlike his men, the general appeared to be an octopus. He stared with pure hatred and loathing at Sly. He almost seemed to want his pupils to burn into Sly's chest.

His men stepped aside respectfully, almost fearfully, to allow him passage. They bowed their heads slightly as he approached Sly – alone. Each tentacle rested on the hilt of a blade.

"Holy cow," he hissed, "If it isn't Sly Cooper." His men tittered nervously. "So you did survive my barrage. Then there is just one thing I should do now." He turned his head back to sneer at his men, who began haggling automatically. "Yes, I know just what to do with you."

"Then if I must die here," said Sly, privately feeling nervous and sceptical, "May I at least make the acquaintance of who is about to kill me?" He made sure to maintain a fixed vigil on his new enemy. He was not going to act afraid, for he was no ordinary thief. It was just the two of them – this general and himself.

"Hah, if you wish it," the octopus laughed scornfully. "I am General Marius Aqualon, employed by Sir Raleigh. Tonight I was meant to ensure your demise and my promotion – but clearly that failed. You have escaped; as you Coopers always seem to be most capable of. Just like your great uncle Ernest Cooper before you." He grinned down at Sly, wanting to provoke the little git into speech.

"I remember your grandfather," said Sly, "A low-down back-stabbing man he was too, according to my dad. He ruthlessly used and discarded people who helped him on the road to power; then he knocked aside all who stood before his path to glory. He didn't care whether anyone lived or died. The only man who could beat him was great-uncle Earnest."

"I like your insolence boy," retorted General Aqualon, "Your great-uncle was hardly a saint by any means. He was a petty thief as you are. No-matter what my grandfather did, he was just as bad. He was hardly the great naval general everyone thought he was."

"You might think that," Said Sly, "But he never committed the acts of your grand-father. So blinded by ambition and jealously was your grandfather, that he isolated himself from friends and family. He did what he did because he cut himself off from anyone loving him. What happened to your grandfather was not the fault of any Cooper. It only took a Cooper to show just how deluded he really was. Someone had to put a stop to him before he went too far. That is the price of giving up love for love of power and ambition. And that is what is slowly happening to you – if you do not let go this idealised vision in your grandfather."

"I am not the product of delusion," spat General Aqualon, "I am but the product of vision and grandeur. I can have power and The Fiendish Five will give it to me. What you Coopers have is just an illusion in itself: at least my relative had a clear definition of what team he batted for. You're just weak, dawdling in the middle as you are."

"You still don't understand, do you?" sighed Sly knowingly. "I never said that my uncle was a saint. But he accepted his own weaknesses, which is inherent in the Cooper code of honour. We cannot be perfect. Men like you refuse to accept that weakness is always there. In turn, that has corrupted you and driven you to commit your acts. Proper leaders are not those who seek power, but those who have it thrust upon them."

"So what you mean," said General Aqualon slowly, "Is that you Coopers overcame my family time and again because you are weak?" He cackled derisively to the night.

"What kind of idiotic belief is this? Power gives you the ability to overcome all of this, boy. Only you are blind to this because you are not ambitious enough to seek it."

"Refusal to accept the truth," said Sly," Is ruining you as we speak. In your heart of hearts you know that Sir Raleigh is a vile braggart who only cares about himself. As your grandfather before, he will use you and then discard you. Power does not lead to fulfilment – at least not the power you seek – but it leads to the destruction of he who would pursue it. It is all about personal gain. In your case, your grandfather was only interested in personal gain and glory. The Cooper line has never been interested in that notion, not in a material sense. We have only ever been interested in the skills we learn. You see, we learn from our mistakes, General, something which you are denying again and again."

"Shut up," screamed General Aqualon, "My mistake was not ensuring your death raccoon. Thanks to you, my life hangs on a thread and my position is all in tatters. It only took one Cooper to bring me crashing down from my plinth. Now I will repay you dearly for it. The Cooper line ends her with you – Sly." He ejected the last words from his mouth like poison. Then each tentacle slithered down to a sword hilt and clasped it. With a metallic hiss, he slid each blade out. One held by each of his four arms, the General was like a mobile killing machine. He and Sly began to circle each other slowly, the men backing away.

"Your grandfather killed people," said Sly, hot tears coming to his eyes. "Now you jeer at a man who would never have done that. You have cut yourself off from kindness, blinding your sight just like your relative before you. Do not laugh at those who know what it is to feel pain." He sniffed back the tears, trying to fight them.

"I guess that it is now up to me to put an end you as Ernest did two generations before me. But know that I do not do this with delight: I only do this because you are too blinded to see the destruction you will cause. Maybe my great-uncle wasn't as great as everyone said, but he had one quality that did make great – unique maybe. He was a thief, but he had compassion."

"A trait which failed to save him from death," said General Aqualon.

"Failed to save him from death yes," said Sly, "But will ensure that he was remembered in his true nature as a great man; remembered by all who knew him. Something your grandfather can now never have. He will always be remembered as man who hungered for his own gain alone and never cared for anyone but himself. Ernest could be a selfless man when he needed, but your grandfather refused to abandon his ambition."

"Refused to abandon it," said Aqualon shrilly, "Because he had vision. He was more than your uncle ever was. He was a great man who rose above the odds to obtain what he desired." His chest was rising and falling rapidly, a manic expression on his face.

"That was his ultimate downfall, after his own death," said Sly. "Because of what Ernest – and all the Coopers before him – did, that is why the Coopers became great. Because we cared for the common man and the wellbeing of others: if not for that I wouldn't be standing before you know. Even though you refuse to accept it, that is why we are about to fight against each other. Because who you chose to be made you an enemy of someone like my great-uncle - it was indeed your own choices, not his, which has really caused the mess you, are in. And you know this, don't you?"

General Aqualon glared at him, silent rage seething and building in his eyes. Sly stiffened his body and flexed his tired muscles, ready for the explosion about to pass. His opponent's body seemed to flare up as he raised all four of the deadly blades. "You think that you are so smart Cooper. But you are just a worthless child caught up in happenings that go way over your head. Your friends and your girl may be dead for all I know. But you have not given up your own life to save them – how compassionate does that make you?"

"I am more use to them alive than dead right now," said Sly. "I can stop you and anyone else from harming them. One who has courage knows when the time is right to throw himself forwards, but also knows when the time is right to live." He thought for a moment, and then he echoed Carmelita's statement in the clearing. "True courage is to know not when to take a life, but when to spare it. I know that by saving one more life, far more good is done than giving it up in this instance."

"Your life?" said Aqualon, "That is not courage, but cowardice - fear for your life."

"It is your own fear that cloaks you," said Sly. "I was willing to die just now in order to save my friends. But you made me realise that as a Cooper I can be so much more than that. I have a path to fulfil and a destiny to meet. Dying here is not it. And I will keep fighting until the very end, demonstrating the true Cooper spirit. My father gave his life for me because he loved me. But he knew that the survival of his son was paramount to him. He died for a purpose. Because of his actions, so much more was done. Due to his choices, the Cooper bloodline has survived. And all we have stood for – what we actually care for - has survived. Something that is good. So if you refuse to see that, then I'll have to take you down."

"Bring it on then," said General Aqualon, "Face me and be cut down in your arrogance and naivety. I will prove how truly inferior the Coopers are. Then Sir Raleigh shall be proud of me once again." He beckoned to one of the squid men. "Get this boy a weapon. I would like a little fun before I finish him. Let's make this a fair fight."

The guard smirked and walked over to a statue of a frog clad in armour. He drew the long blade from its grasp and trotted back with it. He shoved the sword roughly into Sly's hand, and then he retired back into his group of cronies. Still circling, Sly and the general eyed each other.

"A lovely night Aqualon," said Sly sarcastically, the rain running off of his face.

"For a sword fight," said Aqualon. The water ran down his face also.

Sly raised the sword he had been given in a right-handed grip. General Aqualon inched forwards purposefully. Sly withdrew his cane in the left hand, bringing it up beside his sword. He twisted the arm back so that he held the cane behind him, the sword in front of him – like a samurai. It had helped save him more than once, now it would do so again; for all their sakes. They stopped and stood without moving, the downpour drenching them in its wake. The men followed with avid eyes, but neither attacked. The pattering of the rain seemed to fade, as the tension grew. Then anther thunderous crack jolted and rocked the boat.

Looking up, Sly saw a bolt of lightning twist down from the clouds and strike at the wooden deck between them. He sniffed, getting a whiff of burning wood, as a second bolt zigzagged down and struck at the deck. Raleigh was seriously trying to kill him: he knew that this must be the storm machine's doing. An orange light flared up in the blackness. The wooden deck had been set ablaze, everything wooden in the vicinity erupting in flames. Before long, Sly and General Aqualon were enclosed in a ring of fire. The men hollered from outside the inferno.

"Well, this will make it more interesting," said Aqualon. "Not only slaughtered, but roasted too. You'll make a fine prize for the master Cooper – when you're nothing but ash."

"Yes," replied Sly, "I'm sure that your master will just adore cooked calamari." He deliberately got it wrong. "But if you want to try and kill me, just get on with it. Deflate your pompous head a bit why don't you?"

"That's it Cooper," roared Marius, "Time to meet your destiny." He came forwards in a rapid blur of swishing silver blades. He rushed upon Sly, who was forced back against the flames. "This is the end for you raccoon."

Fear welled up in Sly's eyes, quickly to be replaced by defiance. "Not just yet general. There is fight remaining in me still." He bounced forward and swung the blade in his right hand. It clanged against Marius' own weapons, sending him reeling back. In retaliation he swung another sword. Sly brought the cane forward and hooked the blade in its crook. Metal against metal sounded again as the sword spun to the ground. The general writhed, waving his tentacles at Sly, and then dived for the dropped sword. He grabbed it up and swung another two at Sly as he approached.

The fight now returned the pair to the centre of the ring. Sly's own sword once again blocked the blows, knocking the blades backwards. He stood back – panting – his left and right hands clasping his weapons, beading with sweat. The fire was forcing perspiration down his body. Then both dived at the same time and met in the middle.

General Aqualon sliced all four blades through the air, greeted by Sly and his cane. Two blades met the extent of Sly's words, in his right hand, while two clashed with the cane in his left. He locked one blade in its crook. They were now nose to nose with each other. Either only held each other back by the weapons pressing between them. Both were panting hard, the general especially. Their faces were so close, that they could see into each other's eyes. Sly forced a lot of meaning into that gaze. Feeling the pressure beginning to build – by the pressure Aqualon was exerting – Sly silently vowed he would never give up.

#

As they approached, closer and closer to their friend, Bentley and Murray both thought exactly that. So did Carmelita, the side which truly yearned to explain her relationship with Cooper. Speaking to herself she said, "Never give up Sly, not while so many love you."

**This is Chapter 9 of 13 in Part 2 of 6.  
****Well, another chapter up and on the story goes. I don't think I'll be finishing anytime soon and each chapter will be longer than this one, mostly.  
****Part 2 will finish at Chapter 16, so by then I reckon on about 150,000 words. If all goes at this pace the finished novel will be at least double that!  
I hope you all enjoyed reading this again - some big things will happen for Sly, Carmelita and the Gang in the nest few chapters.**  
**Until then, see you next time!**


	14. Chapter 13 - A Feast of Starlight

**Chapter Thirteen: A Feast of Starlight.**

**Author's Note: Sorry for the greater delay between chapters, but here it is. They will take a little longer now because the chapters themselves are getting longer and I have suffered a short stage of hiatus with ideas and all that. This chapter, at least its name, sprung from _The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug._**

"Coffee Carmelita?" asked Winthrop into her ear, "A little pick-me-up perhaps?"

"What?" gasped Carmelita – she tossed her dark-blue curls out of her eyes. "Oh, please excuse me Winthrop. I was just intent on some other thought." She glanced down at the steaming mug he offered her. "Thank you, but I don't drink coffee actually. In truth, I quite detest the stuff. I prefer tea, which is better for you." She considered the red panda, strolling beside her, momentarily. "You should drink it Winthrop – you look like you need it." He did too, for he was quivering after his last ordeal. The ice-cold tears of rain did not serve to help either. His teeth began to chatter like castanets.

"Oh, uh okay," he said, looking abashed and somewhat disappointed, "I guess I could use something hot." He was about to raise the mug to his lips when he stopped. "Are you sure? After all, you have already done so much this night."

"Quite sure," she replied, "But thank you for your consideration." She surveyed him curiously, out of the corner of her eye. Whenever she wasn't chasing Sly around, she would often be engaged in such business with comrades. It sometimes frustrated her a little, as did her relationship with Sly. However, she much preferred such affection to the alternative.

"Neither do I drink you know," she blurted out, feeling he should be made aware. "I never drink alcohol or smoke at all – I thoroughly detest and revile the stuff." Winthrop started violently, but calmed down and nodded. He steadied the precariously rocking cup.

The detective, maintaining his position by her at the head of the group, meekly raised the cup and sipped the black liquid. His cheeks flushed a pale pink as he downed the steaming beverage gratefully. In another minute he had drunken the whole mug. Purposefully and politely he screwed the cap back onto the thermos, which contained the coffee, and placed it back in his bag. The cup went into a side pocket. Timothy John Winthrop stared ahead, attempting not to glance at the vivacious and stunning creature next to him.

The ground became slightly muddier, running with trails of dirt and grass stems. These became collected by puddles of the rain. Their boots and shoes made a slurping noise as they trudged stoically and persistently onwards. There was a general air of melancholy, but also defiance and resistance. Nobody here was about to give up. Carmelita stole a glance at Bentley and Murray, walking at the centre of the group. They both looked fearful and concerned – for Sly no doubt -, but determined like her men. She did not entirely know it, but at least half of their concern was also for her and the officers. Winthrop chattered on enthusiastically next to her, though she wasn't entirely paying attention.

She thought about the whole predicament. Here she was intent on capturing an organised crime lord, while attempting to rescue another criminal at the same time. What a mess Cooper seemed to have dragged her into. But, ever since they had met, she had quite liked their escapades together. Why this was she still did not know. There was an undefinable rogue and gentleman in Cooper: something charming and debonair. She knew that this was just being ridiculous, just some fantasy of a confused young girl in an all too big world. Her emotions manipulated her and confused her.

Cooper manipulated and confused her a lot of the time, in an emotional way. This is why she became frustrated and angry with him. If she could just talk sense into the raccoon, then maybe he could see. But in her heart she knew that Sly was not about to give up pursuing his role as a master thief. That would come later, much later. But she had a good idea that it would come; when he was ready to make that choice. She had to admit that it was not an easy choice to make: a choice that would change your life. She may have been comforted in knowing that Sly secretly kept a little space in his heart for her. A space in his heart that he hoped she may fill someday. She would fight for that chance, because this made it worth so much more. That little chance was very important to her. It was a comfort to her. That was her choice: which meant the entire world to both of them. It would come.

Sly would not have entered her life the way he had if not for some purpose. They shared a fascination for each other that neither could truly explain. Their jaunts by night, flaunting and flirting with each other - imagine that, flirting with a thief. She longed to explore that further, a longing which must bring them together at some point. This idea had bothered for as long as she had known the raccoon. Again she asked herself, could this really be possible? Could she love someone, someone like that?

Only time would tell; during which she would not waste a second. She would not waste a second traversing her path. This had been laid for her and she knew that she was meant to find things out for herself. Ultimately, it was her personal nature that became important - and whether she comprised that that changed her, whether she lost her true self. But she knew that she could never really succumb to despair because – somewhere – a little piece of her had attached itself to Sly Cooper. There was brightness and hope in him. He had potential there, not only as a thief, but as something much greater: something greater to her at least.

She was not about to let go. She was confused, but this was what she felt was right. And if she did not cling on to that, pursue it as she yearned too, then she would lose herself. She was meant to discover this secret. Without that she knew that she would really be making the mistake she feared. Cooper was a link to the world she – he - had been born into. The two of them must have a connection, which by choice had been forged, that had become the key for her to explore. It all came down to the one thing that troubled her. Could there truly be love that related them, if she could not trust him? As she needed to trust her instincts and choice: it was all a question of trust. Trusting this choice, her mistake would be in loosing Sly.

The faces of her parents returned to her mind. They flickered briefly and vanished as she sniffed. She always thought of them at times like this: their warmth and love had been a source of comfort. At times like this she also pondered her other question. Would they have supported her in this goal? Would they have wanted this for their daughter? Every time she asked this, some little voice inside her head said "of course they would." There must be something in that, because every time she heard it said, she somehow felt or knew it to be true. This did indeed comfort her, for she knew that they wouldn't have wanted her to dwell on the past, make herself remorseful. They would have wanted her to be happy. If pursing Sly was part of that, said the little voice, then they would be just as proud of their daughter.

She and Sly had both been born into a world where they had been ready for opportunity. They had had so much before them. In both cases that had been almost cruelly snatched way, at the price of lives of those they had loved. This had been the case with his friends Bentley and Murray. This was undeniably something that brought them together. But she knew just as well that this was why she was black and white in her pursuit of the law. This was also the reason why she pursued Sly.

He needed to know that he couldn't get away with what he did; no matter what mangy thug he stole from. His actions still hurt the common man, the people she had been born of; who he was once born of. This side of her – the business-like side – told her that she had her duty to do. The duty to capture him, whether or not that meant discovering the real raccoon in the end – with this she could not entirely agree. Sly did have another side, a side which could be revealed at the right time. Not just when he needed her, but when she needed him. She needed that part of Sly to reveal itself, perhaps meaning there was some trust there. That trust could be placed there. He was different, but he just had to be given the chance. A chance which she was not sure that could be given: again, it came down to choice and trust. Whether she eventually decided to trust him, trusting him to make the right choice: also when he made the choice would be imperative. It was his choices as much as hers. The battle raged within her. Could they both trust each other to make the right chose? She would face him, talk to him. Eventually, eventually they would both know. With how she felt right now, that would make a world of difference.

Winthrop still was trudging by her, babbling into her right ear. Only somewhat aware of his speech, she caught incoherent snippets such as; "O'Conner, the detective at the back – you know – the Irish bloke. Is this also his first mission like me?" Carmelita zoned out again, missing several more chunks. Winthrop said something along the lines of; "Sly Cooper's latest description is in my files. Is it entirely up-to-date? The boys back in the office told me it was. Six-foot two, about twenty-one, black stripes, grey bushy tail – does that sound right? I don't really know." He couldn't help but glance beseechingly at her, enthusiastic in striking up continual conversation: she decided to oblige him, for he meant well.

"Yes Winthrop, that sounds accurate to me."

"Oh good; I was just concerned really."

"Why were you so concerned?"

"It's just that these kinds of things make me nervous and jittery."

"I know how you feel and trust me: it's all part of the job."

"You truly think that then? Well it is quite a comfort for me Carmelita."

"I am glad that it is. I too worry about the wellbeing of my cohorts as much as my own." This was true, as much as it was also true for any innocent person around her. She cared for anyone who deserved trust and found compassion. Sudden inspiration struck her and this drove her to speak. She was motivated by the magnificent array of stars she saw glittering above. Like so many drops of pearlescent dew. They made her think of something. What they actually made her think of was how she lucky she was. How lucky she was to be here. How lucky she was even to have Sly in her life; she thought of this and was grateful.

"You know Winthrop," Carmelita said softly, "I never quite realised how lucky we are sometimes." She gazed at the shining blanket, the tiny specks seeming innocent from afar.

"In what kind of way lucky?" queried Winthrop, appearing a little confused.

"Just that we are here," she replied, "Just that we are able to fight for the goodness we believe in. The fact that we have people who care around us - you know, the more I think about it, the more tragic it makes these criminals." At least ones other than Cooper she thought. "They are without genuine compassion, driving them into the bottomless void of deception and trickery. There cannot be comfort there. We are lucky because we have something worth fighting for. As opposed to them, we have something we are fighting for." Sly had something to fight for: something worth fighting for. She glowed with conviction.

"A truer word was hardly spoken," agreed Winthrop, admiring her furtively.

"I would hope so," said Carmelita, "But I don't have to hope, for I know it to be true. These stars remind me of that, of the innocence in the world. Under this we can feel assured: comforted by the feast of starlight." She grinned happily, for the first time that night.

"A feast of starlight," echoed Winthrop. He turned his head to look up into the sky. The thousands of silver pin-pricks reflected back into his pupils, creating a seemingly fantastically array of colour. His eyes widened as he stared, utterly transfixed by the beauty that he had not noticed before. They almost seemed to smile down at him; encouraging to keep moving forward. Reminding him that he had a reason to keep living and keep fighting. What Carmelita said rung true to his heart. In so many ways they were all so lucky. With that realisation, they could make a difference – a difference that could change the world. It was a matter of conviction, believe and trust in whom or what you fought for. And, like the fox beside him, he firmly believed and trusted in what he protected. He was indeed fortunate, because he could know that to be right.

Every moment spent here only opened their eyes further. No matter who you were, you could have something worth fighting for. You could chose to fight for what you believed in. But being blind to the value of compassion was what had corrupted these criminals. This was what made fighting worthwhile. Without this emotion in some form, what were you but a hollow shell? Without remorse, accepting this as a necessary weakness, one may always be fated to commit villainy. At some point in time, whether in days, months or years, one who could realise remorse would accept the atrocities of their actions.

But – whether due to hatred, hurt, greed, jealously or spite – these criminals had become monsters with but a single purpose. That purpose being to crush anybody or anything to achieve the goals of their one master. Cooper was one of these obstacles, to be slaughtered in the service of a greater plan. But this was not about to happen so easily. Not while he, his friends and anyone like them in the world fought.

They had to try, try for some remorse. The only true way to defeat an enemy was to change them. The only way to truly defeat an enemy is to make him your friend Winthrop's father liked to say. Could this be done? Winthrop sensed that something more, something truly dark and malicious lurked behind this plot; drawing all criminals towards it in an ever tightening web: a web which was almost ready to be strung. This was no ordinary enemy – his instincts just told him this. This was the absolute embodiment of hatred and jealousy, only a husk of an actual being; pure jealousy and hatred.

This was what Cooper was up against. It must be fought, or it would only consume the world. It would only do this when people like them gave up believing. Once it had broken their spirits, which is what it full well knew and aimed to do. He would not let that happen: none of them would. The ultimate plot could only succeed when they all gave into despair.

But darkness could not exist without light. And while light existed to combat darkness, it would never truly hold sway. In this way, The Master could never succeed. In fact, he had already failed. Failed – although he did not know – because he neglected to comprehend what it was to love. He only needed to realise that, to realise he could never truly succeed while he did not understand. It was a saddening thought to think that someone could have deluded themself to that extent. But while this continued to occur, there would be no choice but to destroy this enemy. His own ambition becoming the final destruction – though it had really done that already. Overcome by the torment he himself had created.

"Come on Winthrop," whispered Carmelita's voice in his ear. She had placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "We need to move on – and I think we'll need you." She smiled at him, feeling sorry that she could not extend her affection a little further. But as nice a boy he was, she knew that her feelings were tangled up elsewhere. She still had to discover what that meant to her.

"What?" he blubbered, "Oh, please excuse me; I was, ah, distracted by my thoughts." He only then realised that he had halted in his tracks, taking in the stars. The squad of men had also halted and were looking on curiously. Bentley and Murray also looked round to see the pair. They too looked politely curious. He adjusted his badge and overcoat sheepishly, embarrassed by his wanderings. "Yes, let's move on shall we? It's necessary to make haste indeed. Right – pardon me – push on then." The officers nodded and resumed their trudge along the muddied trail. He stood by to let them past before following once more.

"You'll do well," said Carmelita quietly, "I know that you were meant to be here. Inspector Barkley knew what he was doing when he assigned you with me." She gave him a playful punch on the shoulder. He very nearly toppled into a mud puddle. She giggled and helped him up. "Go out there and make him proud. Just remember what you are here for and never forget that. Take comfort now – while you are under the feast of starlight, which is a gift you give yourself beyond price." _I_ _just hope that somewhere, buried in his heart, that is what Sly remembers_, she thought. Once again, somehow, the little voice told her it was true.

"I, err, I," stuttered Winthrop, 'Well, thanks a lot Inspector. I feel reassured that someone thinks I am worth that. That's why I took this job; because I was worried that none would think I was up to much." He struggled to finish his sentence. "That means much to me." Carmelita bowed her head, acknowledging his words. He smiled weakly, then turned about and hobbled to the front of the group – his bag weighing him down slightly. Carmelita followed suit, slowly but purposefully.

"Good luck Inspector," said Higgins as she passed by, "I know you were a good choice for this. You'll be a worthy successor to Barkley: we all believe in your abilities. There is no person I know that will do better than you. When Barkley retires, he will rest easy with you in his place." He twiddled his fingers, looking shy, "I believe in you."

"It's all right Higgins," said Carmelita, touching his wrist, "I know what you mean. Thank you for the confidence you display in me. It will mean a lot in times to come." She removed her hand, shot him a wink, and then trotted briskly back to the front. He was a little stunned to reciprocate, but he shared a little grin with himself, feeling happy at his new found boldness. At the same time, he couldn't help feeling a little jealous. He quickly brushed this off, knowing full-well that he was very fortune to act alongside the fox. He would do his duty and do it well. That would impress Carmelita just as much.

"Thanks Carmelita," said Bentley, "For giving us this chance – for letting us go to our friend. I will not forget this." He bestowed a look of thankfulness upon her.

"Yeah, thanks," rumbled Murray, "For giving us the life of our friend. It's all for one and one for all. The Cooper gang will never leave a member behind. That is – at least – one way in which we are different. Thank you for giving us the chance to prove that."

Carmelita could barely open her mouth, yet alone say anything; she managed a small sigh, and then hurried on in embarrassed silence. They all knew what her duty was in the end. She quickly hid her face again – she did not want them to see her tears. She almost felt like opening up to the stars above. But what could she do? They both had paths to follow and reasons for choosing those paths – just like Sly. She would intervene when the time was right: but now was not it.

She would not thwart the path they had set out so abruptly. Her role in their lives was yet to come, and her heart was telling her just how to go about it. She listened to it, for it was truthful to her feelings. So she would continue to follow it, as she had from the day her parents had been taken. The strong sense of justice imbued within her guided her along. And it was that justice, what she truly believed in from childhood, which drove her belief in compassion and trust. So while she remained true to herself, what she longed to be, she would trust their belief in compassion: just as she did, and she always would. Without that, what could there be but endless sorrow and regret? To this she would never give in. That was the true nature of justice she believed in, and would remain so as long as she believed in it.

The red fox herself drank in one last look at the stars, shining hopefully in the distance. Then she turned her head and walked away into the night. But she did not leave sadness or sorrow behind. There was promise there. Most importantly of all, there was hope. Hope in the courage they shared. Cooper was after the Fiendish Five, but now she would follow in his wake, doing her duty. Long after they had departed that spot, the hope seemed to remain. Blanketed and protected by the purity of the stars; reminding someone of a certain thief.

Hope protected by the feast of starlight.

**Giza Plateau, Outside of Cairo, Egypt: 12:03 AM.**

The night was dark and bitter cold. The wind howled across the desert in great waves of echoing sound. The sand picked itself up and fluttered down in fine clouds of dust to rest upon stone. The wind puffed it upwards again, where it returned to veil the limestone blocks, at the base of one of the grandest monuments ever built by man. The pyramids rose majestically towards the sky, eternal and yet unobtrusive during their never-ending vigil. Like great sentinels they towered above the desert, somewhat foreboding yet awe-inspiring. Away from them, at the edge of the plateau, crawled a sprawling metropolis.

The city of Cairo – the largest in Egypt – was like a beating and pulsing heart of life. In the darkest hours of the night it glowed with activity and colour, unabashed by the passing of the sun and moon. It seemed to breathe like some great creature, always living – thronged by people. It lay there in the desert, existing on regardless. But gradually it was expanding outwards, every year chewing up the sand. It spread further, its borders growing, so that it now sat just beyond the great plateau of Giza. Oblivious to the coming march of the modern day, the temples, tombs and colossal statues remained absolute: standing steadfast and tall.

Dwarfed by the lights of the city behind them, a small band of men trickled up the slope onto the plateau. The faintly flickering light of the torches held aloft indicated their path: their approach towards the monuments perched within the desert. As the tiny group came closer, they were enveloped in the silken shadow of the great pyramid. It imposingly stood before them, as if it were some Supreme Being ruling over them.

But the man at the head of the group payed no heed to this: as impressive a structure it was, he had seen it many times before; had even been into some of the outer chambers once. No, he was here for something else just as old – just as impressive: possibly a site far more ancient than he pretended to know. He knew it to be here, hidden within this complex. All those years of research had led to this point. He might be about to uncover the roots of one of the greatest legends ever known to history.

It had been his life's ambition and work to uncover this mystery – for he longed to know its deepest and oldest secrets. Little could he know that the night's discovery would only yield even greater mysteries: mysteries that would only be solved with time - and patience? He was not in this for fame and fortune, but rather for the wealth of knowledge in secrets he may uncover. That was what he found to be important. The men trailing him were just a scattered group of Sunday archaeologists, people he had dug up from various universities and colleges. They didn't seem to care too much about their findings, as long as they got paid. Still, he knew they had some hungering curiosity for what he sought, even if they didn't readily admit it to him. He didn't care anyway: if they found what he was hoping for, he would easily pay them his weight in gold. He was a rich man.

About three-hundred meters from the base of the great pyramid, the man issued a low whistle and the group forked off to the left. The tools and other equipment they carried shook and rattled in their packs. One of them swore abruptly as he stubbed his toe on a rock. The others quickly hissed at him to be quite, silencing his tirade of colourful language. From the shadows there bloomed a smaller, though still ornate structure of limestone benches. It was a slightly crumbling stepped-pyramid, looking worn with age but still standing at the feet of its much larger cousin. The band of men headed towards it, the moon glinting beyond its tip. But it was not for this tomb that they had come.

Their leader knew the intended excavation site must be close-by, somewhere approximately at this point. If they dug here, he should find what he hoped. His breathing became rapid and in short gasps. All these years had led to this, this find. Finally his ages of research would pay off. His palms became sweaty as he clenched a pick-axe from his own bag. His body trembled in anticipation. Then he yelled to the night, the contingent jumping as one and quivering in fright. He could see the spot, right where his mapping said. With undisguised joy he raced forwards, his men puffing and panting along in his wake. He didn't stop running until he was just at the base of the step-pyramid. They all arrived, clutching their ribs, beside him. The site was a pit, dug more than two metres into the sand and stone. Wooden ladders and excavation tools littered the dig, covering the actual treasure within.

Arranged in an intricate pattern was a series of stones inlaid in the earth at their feet. To the ordinary, un-knowledgeable eye it might have passed off as just a set of tiles. They created a detailed mural that was half veiled by the fine coat of sand. But he knew perfectly well what was hidden here. He gave a shout, prompting all the men to drop their bags to the ground and grab up brush and tools. Together they proceeded to carefully remove the film of grit and dust from the stone workings. Two men planted flaming torches around the worksite so that it became flooded in a hellish glow. The lights flickered and made strange shadows on the mural. At last the mosaic of masonry was revealed in its entirety. It might appear to be just a series of hieroglyphic patterns and fonts; it actually created an image of a raccoon's head. The giant symbol had laid there for centuries, forgotten and buried under layers of sand: forgotten – until now.

This was the proof he needed for his theory; proof that he wasn't stark raving mad. Feverishly he scratched the stones with his fingertips, looking for some catch or imperfection. He could find none. Snatching a glance at his men, eyeing him expectantly, the man bent back down and examined the stones at a closer angle. This time he noticed an anomaly: a gap between two stones had formed, sand trickling through it into the abyss below. It appeared to indicate a seal of some kind, splitting the mural right down its centre axis. He called for a pick-axe, which was hastily shoved into his left hand.

Standing up once more, he raised the tool in a two-handed grip. He remained fixed on the point where the gap appeared. With one precise and coordinated swing, he bought the point crashing down on the seal. For a moment nothing happened; he just stood there holding the wooden handle looking perplexed. Then there was a deep rumbling crack, as if some ancient mechanism had come to life. Suddenly the ground beneath their feet shook, tremors rocking the stones. Pebbles began to roll and shiver, collecting in small piles as the mosaics split open down the middle. Tides of dust and earth slid down the two stone doors that had formed, opening inwards. The men yelled in surprise, all of them diving for the edge of the pit. They reached it just in time and clung there as the mural split open completely and left a yawning hole where there had just been solid ground.

Heart thumping madly in his chest, the man stood peering over the pit's edge into the depths. It was still too dark to see much, though he thought he could see stairs leading down. Maybe – just beyond that – there was a stone floor, coated with dust and shattered pottery. The two halves of the mural had now folded into the walls, connecting to an even greater mosaic lining the tomb edifice. Craning his neck further he saw a rectangular portal leading into a chamber beneath the sand. He jumped back to avoid falling in and breaking his neck.

Without delay, he snapped brisk orders to the men in Arabic. They grabbed up the discarded bags and removed flashlights, ropes and tiny shovels. The leader himself left his pack beside the hole and proceeded only with his shooting stick. Beneath his leather jacket there was also a revolver; he may need to use it, though he hoped not. These men were not quite so seedy. He beckoned and led the way to the side of the opening, where he began to follow the steps down. As the party descended, he noticed hundreds upon hundreds of pictures in the walls. Anthropomorphic depictions of raccoons were repeated again and again. Curiously he leaned over to a set of hieroglyphs and brushed way their coat of dust. Scrutinizing the writing closely he could make out that they read – in English: _Cooper_.

The party touched down on the tomb's floor - the night sky and stars seeming miles away when they looked up. The men flicked on the flashlights and the chamber was illuminated in a second eerie glow. The leader began to feel more excited, the tension growing within him. Avidly he examined a wall and blew more grime and dust away. The images had barely deteriorated with age. Delightedly consuming all the hieroglyphs he could understand, words and phrases like _master thief_ and _family bloodline_ and _unrivalled skill and stealth_ popped out at him.

Clearly someone had spent a lot of time in carving this ornate chamber: a tomb for some great thief, the thief he had come to find. The legend he had come to discover. But who could have done this. Arriving at the door, the leader saw an entire sentence in hieroglyphs. _A man of infinite skill and prowess, but of utmost love and care_ it read. _He shall be remembered_, finished a second tile. Who in the world had spent so much time working on this: it must have been someone close to whoever was interred here. But something, something did not quiet add up to all this. What could that be - what secret did the tomb hide?

There was a name written above the strange message, but he neglected to decipher its meaning. He was too excited to discover the room beyond. They bustled over the threshold into the dim chamber. If he had been more alert, he would have noticed some crucial images, slightly more recent, carved behind a dilapidated urn. The inscription above the door would have given the actual name of whose tomb they were in. Unbeknownst to the leader, the name he knew was false: rather that created to protect a long forgotten secret: to protect an identity, cloaking the true persona. Way back in the depths of time: the legend was old, older than even he thought.

A name written in English lettering – so much out of place it was absurd – was scratched out beneath a depiction of two raccoons. One of them lay in the arms of the other, wounded in the chest. Carved writing suggested that he tried to say something, captured forever in stone. He wore a cloth headdress – like that of a pharaoh – on his head. Two small things that looked like crooks lay at his feet. A name was written there but had also been rubbed out. Two small emeralds were inserted beneath, overshadowed by the urn. The keen eye would have thought this an obvious attempt to hide the carvings from prying eyes.

The figure cradling him in his arms seemed to weep. He carried a pole capped with a large hook, oddly similar to those lying by the prostrate raccoon. His dress seemed completely irregular with the other deities and kings etched into the stone. There was definitely something strange, very strange about the carving. It looked like something from the 21st century, somehow added to the tomb's collection. Also carved into the corner of the picture was a dark figure. It was shrouded and mostly concealed, but it resembled the shape of an eagle. Eternal: always watching and waiting for the pair before it - especially the younger of the two.

The name that replaced the one scratched out beneath translated as; _Slytunkhamen_. Bizarrely, it was painted next to the young raccoon sobbing over his companion's dying body. At least, the leader would have thought this. It was this name who he thought the tomb belonged. But if one had been able to read the name scratched out, it would have revealed the most perplexing secret of all. For the name had never existed in the time of this tomb's construction. It couldn't possibly have been put there; especially since whose name it read had never set foot in this hallowed temple. An inscription adjacent to it read; _Master of Thieves_. The lettering read out; _Sly Cooper_.

Lastly, one of the few images not of a raccoon showed a skunk like creature. He was perched above the scene on a crazy balloon-like picture. What it meant was yet unclear. It was all up to one person: one master thief. The final legend rested in his hands, the future of the legacy carved in these walls. With time, he would act out the story it told. Distracted, the leader had failed to notice this. One surprise had surpassed him that night. But the biggest surprise, the biggest shock of all, was yet to be discovered.

He barked orders to have the torches held high. The aura illuminated a sizable but modest chamber. It was about three by six metres squared. Wooden benches supported a series of golden jewellery, chalices, vases and urns. Some jewels, necklaces and other bangles occasionally spilled forth from chests. Little bronze effigies and figures of cats and other Egyptian gods sprouted here and there.

There were jewel inlaid mosaics on the walls, depicting deities and scenes from the ancient world. Gods such as Anubis, Ra and Horus appeared intermittently. In reality however, there was not as much as he expected. In total the chamber was probably worth about a million American dollars. Still, it was as thrilling a find as he had hoped. This must have been what the unknown thief had rested from the grip of those corrupt pharaohs. Not for personal gain, but as tribute to and remembrance of a true master; as he had read in history texts and other tomes.

What really held his attention was in the very centre of the chamber. This was the last mystery he had come for. A great stone bench rose about a meter from the floor, carved out of solid pink granite. Atop the granite slab rested a simple stone sarcophagus, sculpted in the shape of a slim body. It was decorated with basic ensembles of hieroglyphs and carvings. Not a single jewel or speck of gold could be seen. Apparently its eventual occupant had not wished to shower himself in these riches, rather than use them as tokens to remember his daring capers in life. Again the message of resentment to selfishness and material gain became prominent.  
Even though the coffin lacked the lavish look of others he had seen it was non-the-less impressive. It had been deftly sculpted by hand, using tools like the ones they carried. The coffin served to emphasise the thief's separation from hunger for wealth and power.

The tomb did not glorify his wealth, but displayed only as trophies with no monetary value; but as symbols of his achievements. His excitement mounting to a peak, the leader hurried over to the sarcophagus. He had been waiting for so long, and now the moment was finally here. Think of the newspapers, television shows, radio programs and book rights to the story. At last the world would know of his find. He called for assistance, the men rushing up to help him. They lit more torches around the walls, illuminating the room brightly now. The black smoke burned in copious clouds.

With a grunting of effort, the perspiration running down their faces, the team of men shoved hard against the stone lid. With a grinding hiss it began to slide and then fell off the coffin, crashing to the floor. It was intact but the leader could not help wincing. They must not harm the artefacts where possible. Cautiously he tiptoed back to the side of the gaping sarcophagus and looked in. His face dropped, his mouth falling open in a silent gape of surprise and shock. He could only stare in dismay at what he saw.

Looking bemused, the men rushed up to have a look themselves. Their eyes bugged out in confusion. Three of them scratched their heads, wondering what mistake had been made. The others just continued looked befuddled by the interior of the coffin. Shielding his eyes, praying he was seeing things, the leader peered back into the coffin. But his eyes had not deceived him; it was true. There were no bandages, no jewels or treasures or even any cyanotic jars or vessels resting there. But how could this be? It did not make any sense! His ignorance to the anti-chamber before only served for him to stare amazedly. Everything had led up to this point – but what to make of this last discovery? The look of shocked dismay lingering on his face, he admitted the truth silently. The sarcophagus was completely and utterly empty. No mummy was laid to rest within the carved box.

There was no trace of a body ever having been placed inside.

**The slopes of Krakov Volcano, exact location unknown: 12:12 AM.  
**  
Stringer stepped down the steel boarding ramp and placed his first foot onto the Svalbard Islands. The St. Petersburg rocked gently, moored behind him in a rocky cove. Everything seemed silent – a little too silent for his liking. He felt like someone or something was watching him, always. This place held some disguised menace: the dark and barren slopes. The glimmering patches of cold snow. The sleek liner seemed strangely out of place. He snatched a glance at it and then stepped surely onto the rocks. A mountain – the Krakov Volcano – towered above him. It was like some fuming monster, a faintly orange glow near the top. There was a strong smell of sulphur and brimstone. Fine clouds of sooty smoke trailed in wisps near the peak. _Why was this part of Norway such a foreboding place_?

He smirked to himself, starting to meander at pace up the slope. He slipped in a puddle of melted snow, but ignored it and kept on going. He wasn't sure quite where he had to go, but some unseen will was felt to be guiding him. Some presence not just in the air or nearby, but some presence within his own heart and body and soul: some kind of cold hatred almost. Like the emotion itself was embodied within him – jealousy.

_Status Check: Death Ray nearing completion – awaiting confirmation of major component.  
_  
He hitched the smirk back onto his face, dismissing his feelings. He would interpret those later. For at the moment he had very important matters to discuss; matters that The Master needed to know about - matters that he would want to discuss very much indeed. Even with a body, he could not tell that The Master was all around him. His actual presence, sense of being, monitoring Stringer as he came. He would not see The Master's true form that night – no, that would not be until much later.

Until he had uncovered many secrets he did not yet understand. _But where was this master?_

Stringer was angered by the thoughts of his traitorous once-friend. Sir Nigel would pay for what he had done to him. Humiliating him and stealing away what was rightfully his. Stealing away his great potential like the thief Sly Cooper - when he finally caught up with Bentley, Sir Nigel's precious son, he would gain his revenge on his friend. For he was sure that he lived, hiding somewhere in the world, attempting to stop him seizing their invention; protecting his wretched son – oh what a naive and futile attempt, not to mention predictable.

As for his wife, Stringer had ensured her fate. Back during their fateful last encounter he had sent his men to kill her, punishing Sir Nigel. But he didn't know that this had failed: though nobody knew what had become of Nigel's wife Laura. Maybe she was still out there, hiding under a different name. Waiting for the moment when she could reveal herself to her son and husband. Stringer knew that his friend thought her dead. He was not wholly wrong, but he didn't know for sure. But it didn't matter now: he had bigger fish to fry. There were plenty of other ways to orchestrate his vengeance. Ways in which he and The Master could collaborate on together. He would have his vengeance.

In his blind fury and rage, Stringer could not understand that he himself had caused his grief and pain. He had severed the one true treasure he had: the friendship of the one and only turtle he had ever truly been able to call a friend. It was almost too late to reconcile. The acts he was committing had ensured the damage was done. His hunger for power was slowly but surely eating him out from the inside. He was no longer his old self.

_Status Check: Preparing for courier of component – awaiting confirmation of contact.  
_  
When he did meet Bentley, he would tell him the truth about his father. Why he had been left on the doorstep of that orphanage. Why he had been abandoned at an early age. He would delight in causing him pain when he found out the truth. His father had not been such a saint after all. Stringer had attempted his murder, as Interpol thought he had succeeded in. But he was not really dead, having faked this to throw Stringer off the track. What had he hoped to gain by such a futile act? He would delight in seeing Bentley's distraught reaction. Once again he was wrong, however.

Sir Nigel had had many reasons for faking his death. One of which had been to protect his son. Shield him from the awful truths of his own life. The consequence of what he had done. The boy should be allowed to grow up as other children, unhampered by the invention his father had birthed. And what it could now do to the world in the wrong hands. He had to stop Stringer seizing it. Stop the world of pain he could cause; make him see sense. He may have thought there was one last chance in bringing back his old friend. Sadly, this was not the case. Brendan Stringer had long ago allowed himself to sink into the realm of treachery and deceit. He could no longer truly comprehend the greatest value of compassion, love and friendship. He laughed at the memory of his friend for believing in such a folly.

Stringer left off with his thoughts, returning his full attention to the climb. The boat was now almost fifty feet below him, dwindling in the shadow of the mountain. He climbed and climbed, coming higher and higher – panting. The mere feeling – the presence of hatred, the will – seemed to drag him on. He decided to listen to it and embrace it. This was the feeling of strength, the true mastery of one's own mind and nature. At least so he thought. Regardless, he had his mind set on all but one goal: a goal which he would find in that mountain, deep within its fiery depths and caverns.

_Status Check: Confirmation of contact arrival - awaiting further instructions._

Stringer felt his breath, his heart pumping in his chest, as he laboured up the steepening slope. It became increasingly grey and dark with volcanic ash and soot. Great boulders of volcanic stone and other rock began to rise about him. Jagged peaks, like hideous beasts, pushed up out of the mountain side. The smell of brimstone and sulphur intensified. He wrinkled his noise, sliding the monocle back up his face. His palm sweating a little, Stringer clenched the hilt of the rapier at his waist. His knuckles knocked against the leather-cushioned butt of his semi-automatic pistol. He was now feeling somewhat nervous: some undefinable presence was watching him, he was sure of that.

But it was in the very air around him, like some all-encompassing will. Not like any other form of life he knew. The Master seemed to surround him, creeping into his mind and invading his thoughts. Stringer did not fear this though; it was power and strength. If he wanted power he knew that he must embrace this feeling. Power could never be yours if you held empathy and compassion close. His encounters with Sly, and later Bentley too, would show him that this was false.

Not that he would be able to admit it. The sting of his friend's apparent betrayal hurt him too deeply. He could not see the real motivation behind his actions: not to deprive him of potential, but to stop him from becoming a monster. To save so many from the suffering he could cause. To save what was once his friend. Stringer could not understand this, for he had rejected it: if love could do him good, then why not the same cold hatred behind The Master's success. He would soon learn of the true and terrible sacrifice The Master had made to achieve this goal.

He was not triumphant but cursed; in a form of living death. What monster would have endured just to destroy a rival's family lineage? Stringer had become blinded, by his own actions, to this. His ambition had all but consumed him. And while he pursued a hunger for power, he could not escape this path. Power he thought he had been deprived of; that he thought was his birthright - power which was now depriving him of his old life. Really depriving him of the potential he could achieve. He could never deserve what he sought by this path. He was now convinced that this was the only way. The true villainous, malicious act had been committed: he did not fight for something worth fighting for. The hope he once had was gone. At least, he thought it had.

_Status Check: Subject nearing contact chamber – initiate electrification sequence.  
_  
Brendan Stringer suppressed his thoughts: now was not the time for them. These weak little notions that nibbled at his mind - he was above the petty feeling and meaning that seemed to press on his mind through them. The Dutchman coughed and raised his head. Near the peak of the volcano, where the flaming embers flickered and glowed, he could see some kind of portal. It was simply an opening in the rock. A cave formed by volcanic activity: magma would have flowed many ages ago here and gouged tubes in the rock. The entrance, the cave he saw must be one of these, now adapted to hide The Master's lair. Somewhere within that passage was where he must go. He just felt it, his heart going cold. He was about to meet the one he had always heard of, but had never seen.

This was no place for Sir Nigel's son Bentley. Stringer knew the boy had asthma and conditions of this kind could make him cough profusely. He smirked at the idea of distress in his enemies. _That is what they deserved for betraying him. _The only thing giving the cave away was a small metal panel on the left side. It had a few buttons, but that was all. This was the only technology in site. This was definitely where he must enter the fortress within the Krakov Volcano. Upon reaching it he briefly halted for breath. Then he stood up and clutched his rapier hilt. Without hesitation he plunged into the dark entrance. Fluorescent light tubes at spaced intervals gave the only dim illumination to the passage.

_Status Check: Master preparing for contact – electrification in 4:00 and counting._

The passage was plain and drab, hewn out of the grey volcanic rock. Apparently some boring machine had been used to tunnel into the mountain. As Stringer walked he patted the holster to ensure his pistol was secure. It was: but was it loaded? He slipped it out and cocked back the hammer. It was like a vintage pistol from the sixties, only souped up for his arrangements. He liked to have vogue and style. The pistol was loaded, so he put it back in the holster. His left hand remained on the rapier.

A feeling was crawling all over him now. The strong sense of cold and hatred he had known before. Outside it was not so strong; but in here it was intensified by the confined space. It became more and more so as he walked towards a hellish red glow at the end of the corridor. Who and what he would find there he did not really know.

He emerged into a tremendous, cavernous space: his feet met cold metal and he looked down to see that he was walking on some kind of shining silver gantry. The rough stone floor of the corridor had been abandoned for this sleek and new attire. From the previously primeval place he had seen outside, this felt positively modern and technological. He had just entered some enormous machination, the brainchild of The Master's devious mind. Somewhere within it was his ultimate weapon: for which he needed Stringer to complete. To orchestrate their plans together – The Master needed The Spear-Head.

If Stringer was successful, he could give it to him, the ultimate weapon. And once Cooper, indeed Sir Nigel and his son were out of the way; their only obstacles had been removed. The Fiendish Five would obtain ultimate power: the two of them would have power. In the end though, The Master would not share this power. Stringer was a pawn in his game to be manipulated until he could be thrown away. Brendan Stringer himself was too blind to see this. What his old friend had tried to reveal to him all along.

Charismatic as always, Stringer strode forwards without fear. The metal gantry was narrow, about a metre wide, without railing on either side. It was one cold and seamless plate of some alloy he had never seen before. It seemed impervious, without a single dent or scratch. _What on earth was this stuff? He had never seen it before in his life! _Abruptly the gantry stopped, ending in midair. There was no fence or sign of its end. It simply finished in an empty space. Way below Stringer, he judged about eighty metres, was a glowing trench. It was red-hot magma, flowing from the heart and core of the mountain. He must be close to the centre of the volcano.

The massive cavern was carved from the black rock, rolling up to the ceiling. Way above his head was a small opening, through which he could glimpse a dark and starry night sky – a ventricle of the volcano. A slight gust of cool wind spiralled down into the cavern, swallowed up by the warmth emanating from the lava pit. Great craggy boulders and rocks surrounded the space. From the roof there hung enormous stalactites, hanging down like evil blades. They were threatening, feeling as if they could plunge down upon him.

The gantry was supported above the magma by tapering pillars of stone. Parallel to his position was another platform, behind which was a metal door – sealed tight in the rock. Pipes and wires snaked along the walls, occasionally connecting to metallic boxes and the like, but there was little other technology. Some great rumbling sound throbbed out of sight. Apparently this place had no other purpose than as a meeting point, an open area. An open area where he could not escape or hide easily: deliberately making him vulnerable.

_Status Check: Electrification sequence counting to commence in 3:12 – 3:11 – 3:10._  
_  
_Without warning a powerful feeling of hatred and cold swept over him. His body cringed as it hit him and he shivered in a fluid movement. Then his brain, his very mind, seemed to erupt with the hideous presence within. He groaned and sagged to his knees. A voice seemed to throb in his mind, taking over his body and soul. He bellowed, refusing to be cowled. He was not a weakling but an equal. It was a test by The Master; a test to see if he was worthy of his cause. He was worthy – this was not his fear, but strength!

Stringer pushed himself up and clenched the rapier hilt. He yanked it out and raised it in front of him, levelling it at any attacker. But none came – the cavern was empty. It was only the cold and malicious presence within him, embodying itself in his thoughts. The space appeared to dim and become much darker than before. A thin veil of shadow had descended upon it, brought along by the aura of darkness. _The Master, the Master was coming for him._

_Status Check: Electrification occurring in 2:54 – 2:53 – 2:52 and counting._

Scrabbling for his pistol Stringer brought out the weapon and tried to steady it: his hands shook terribly. The sense of dread had quiet shocked him, seemed to drain him. Pain, torment and death were what it said to him. Not life at all, but a living death. Most of all it was suffering: without remorse or regret, just the will of jealousy and hatred and spite. It was bitter and old, very old. Ancient beyond recognition; how could it endure any longer, fuelled by rage and spite?

_Status Check: Electrification occurring in 2:11 – 2:10 – 2:09 and counting.  
_  
He didn't know and didn't care. This was not what he had come to understand. He wanted the power that it could give him. Who cared for love and compassion when you could have power? That was a sign of weakness – weakness. What coursed through him right now would have had little effect if he had embraced what it was to love, the value of friendship. He was easy prey to be manipulated by the will devoid of kindness and feeling. Devoid of any true emotion it prayed on his fears and dreams, tormenting his mind. Temples throbbing terribly, Stringer hunched forwards to resist the incredible will. He was a vessel for its awful strength. It was then that he saw it at last, like nothing he had ever seen before.

_Status Check: Electrification occurring in 1:45 – 1:44 – 1:43 and counting.  
_  
He could not tell whether it was real or not. Possibly just some figure of his imagination, brought on by this madness of his brain. Even so, behind it some more solid presence seemed to exist. There was something there; someone or something had now entered the chamber. What he saw before him was something like a cloud of billowing black smoke. It was neither smoke nor a gas, but he could not define it. It was almost like an idea in his head, only seen through his eyes; some ghostly apparition.

_Status Check: Electrification occurring in 1:27 – 1:26 – 1:25 and counting.  
_  
He almost seemed to know that, if anyone else had been in the room, only he could have seen it. For that was how it was imagined in his tortured mind. The ominous apparition of black wisps, like a ghost, flowed across the room – it didn't blow like normal cloud – and approached him. His head throbbed again but then subsided. The Master knew of his presence and had realised his grip on Stringer. He needed him complacent but not a raving wreck. He must be malleable to his purposes. Beyond the black cloud, veiled by Stringer's thoughts, there was definitely a solid form. It could not be entirely seen, but it was there.

_Status Check: Electrification occurring in 1:02 – 1:01 – 1:00 and counting.  
_  
His heart began to pump faster and faster, the blood rushing along his limbs. He was almost nervous now and he could feel every frantic beat. Two red pinpricks, which must have been eyes, and two great flapping appendages defined the cloud – making it billow. Were these wings – there was no way of knowing for sure. A brief glint from a metallic surface within made him stumble backwards before he found the thing hovering, flapping directly over his head. It did not speak but rested there. Stringer failed to hear the hum of electricity, some countdown coming to an end. Then it struck him.

_Status Check: Electrification occurring in 0:13 – 0:12 – 0:11 and counting.  
_**  
** The dark cloud, the presence that he thought must be The Master descended. He was entwined in its dark tangles and temporarily became blinded. Then it lifted and he could see again. It rose above him, flapping near the roof of the cave, as of waiting for something. He fixed his gaze upon it, the pain in his head dissolving as his understanding dawned. This was The Master, as he chose to appear to Stringer at this moment, the ultimate symbol of his wrath and power.

_Status Check: Electrification in 0:03 – 0:02 – 0:01 – 0:00 – sequence initialised._

Stringer yelled in surprise as he was lifted from his feet and sailed up to the ceiling. His pistol and sword were torn from his grasp and stuck to the walls of the cave. Some magnetic force pushed him upwards and now pinned him against the roof. He was trapped – helpless – the perfect victim. Now he could not escape from his master. The dark presence followed him up to the ceiling, halting just beneath him. Using its two pinpricks of red for eyes, it looked upon the frozen weasel. He stared back, feeling the tension yet comprehension dawning between them. They were not that far apart and yet very much alike.

It did not speak to him just yet. Blue bolts of electricity issued from the wires on the walls and ricocheted around the chamber: jagged fingers of blue lightening licked at the sides of the cave and crept upwards, bathing it in a blue glow. It washed over Stringer and he felt his body go numb: only the muscles in his face could move, allowing him to speak. He was all but incapacitated. The Master had him right where he wanted him. The negotiations cold commence - ruthless efficiency without thought or hindrance. He faced the black mass of wisps as some deep and penetrating voice finally came forth from within it.

_Status Check: Subject has been neutralised – operations to proceed as planned._

"I smell fear, I sense it," said the voice. "And I can sense the hatred that issues from you like a noxious vapour. I can smell it on you, and it smells good."

"Who, who are you," stuttered Stringer, feeling nauseous from the effects of the electricity.

"Why, I am The Master," said the black apparition, "Who else would I be? You know it to be true – Stringer." Saying his name was like a stab wound to the chest. It shot through the weasel like ice.

"Of course,' Stringer said, "But why do you conceal yourself from my eyes?"

"That is not entirely true," said The Master, "For you see me as your mind imagines me. You know me for what I really am; the strength of hatred. I am perfect and perfection has no age. I have been on this earth for more than twelve millennia and now you will help me finish what I started. The destruction of a foolish lineage doomed to crumble beneath my talons."

"Exactly what I too desire," said Stringer, his courage returning. "The destruction of that foolish thief and his precious book, also revenge against my deluded friend Sir Nigel – I will have his son and then I will have the Spear-Head. That narrow-minded turtle could never see it for all its potential. He tried to stop me; to protect the world he said."

"As deluded as you say," whispered The Master, ominously soothing. "But we will have our revenge. With the power we shall seize it will be revealed that all of them are wrong. They are nothing and they are weak. Power is your only ally, if which you are too weak to seek then you are little more than a bug to be crushed. There is only power, and these foolish romantics who stand in our way."

"As many did to me years ago," said Stringer, "I will show them that there is no such thing as love in this world. My friend was foolish for ever having believed in this justice. It will only let you down in the end."

"Love did not get either of us where we are today," The Master whispered. "You know that now – you will be a valuable ally to me. But be warned: fail me and you shall pay the price. I am perfection and there can be no mistakes. Do not attempt to fool me. Otherwise I will track you down and kill you. I am old, ancient as time and I know these things. I am more than just a living being. I represent the ultimate power – I am eternal and ever more. No bullet can kill me." Stringer gulped.

"Truly you cannot be killed?" he asked.

"I am kept alive by anything far more than blood and flesh. I discarded those constraints long ago. With this I destroyed the Coopers, brought them crashing down in flame. They were nothing ever compared with me. Now with Sly Cooper I will show the world that I am the real master. Once the death ray is complete nothing can stop me, not even the last of history's 'greatest thieves'. Only I need your invention to do this. Do not fail me or you will pay most dearly." The cave felt like it suddenly went cold by several degrees.

"Of course I will not," Stringer hastily said. His lower jaw felt as if it were shuddering, acting of its own accord. It felt like The Master had some strange influence over him, his intense aura of hatred and cold burrowing into the weasel. So much cold and maliciousness - there was no warmth there. He felt no sympathy or compassion towards Stringer. They were but agreeable allies in a much greater scheme. He would be culled at the slightest need.

"Together we – you – will have the ultimate super weapon. The greatest and most powerful weapon the world has ever seen. The Spear-Head will be ours – err, yours – as soon as I can obtain the final components. I will not fail; it's just I must have the time to find my old friend, the one who betrayed me." Stringer gulped, stumbling over his words.

"That betrayal is was his downfall," hissed The Master, subtly goading Stringer towards his will. "Revenge is the prime ingredient in the fountain of eternity. Ambition will drive you on and give you strength. Track him down and kill him. Make him realise what he has done to you. Your lust for vengeance means you'll never give up – not like he did. Show him that he is a fool. As I will to Cooper. He must be found and dealt with!" A deep, all-encompassing laugh emanated from the black apparition and penetrated the whole cavern.

It chilled to the bone. The Master almost appeared to be sceptical of Stringer, the laughter implying his contempt. He thought he may hesitate at the last minute – would not kill. _Well, thought Stringer, he is wrong. I will prove I can destroy Sir Nigel. I must for my own good, if I am to have what I desire. It is the only way. _Still, he gulped and his eyes flickered; as if he still doubted it a little. A corner of him knew he was not certain – this was a tiny speck of remorse. What looked like wings flapped within the cloud, black wisps billowing about the space? The Master was becoming impatient with his babbling.

Stringer hurried on, ignoring his feelings – he had conviction. He had to. "I know he is not dead and seeks to protect it from me. He is foolish for doing so, for it is rightfully mine. He is the only one who could know of its location and its plans. Give me time and I will find him. We must wait, and then the world will tremble, crumble at our feet: as will Sly Cooper when he faces you. He cannot fight this power; this is a power too great to face. Maybe he will think not, being a Cooper, but we shall see. Will he fight our weapon, fight you, or run and hide like a scared child, which he is. We'll get him in the heart, force him to realise that the Cooper code of honour makes him naive and foolish. Show that he is nothing, nothing."

"I like that idea very much," said The Master. "Exploit Cooper's ultimate weakness; for while he is a thief he has always cared and never hurt what he calls 'innocents'. Poor, stupid child, he will know better. How can he be a thief, someone of worthy note while he believes in that? I will hurt those innocents, torture his friends; then how will he react? I doubt he will really be as great as history has made him to be." A shrill wind howled throughout the volcanic tubes and tunnels. A sulphur smell unfurled Stringer's senses.

"He'll run scared, in the end only caring for his own skin. I shall prove it. Then he will fear me; fear me because he knows he is wrong. Ultimately he will run, save his own life rather than protect others. For that is a mark of a true thief, especially of his kind. I will prove he is but a coward. Then I will have that final victory, my final victory over the Coopers. For their honour code will be broken. And that is all they ever were – working by a failed oath, doomed to destruction."

The Master was almost piteously wrong. Sly would never run; he would fight it to the end. That was the true raccoon, one which The Master could not see. He saw only the cowering thief he wanted to see: the enemy he had made for himself and desired only to crush. He could comprehend the love he himself lacked, had lost many centuries ago. The love which kept Sly going and knowing what was more precious than ambition and power. He was the real thief. The Master was just a power-hungry and jealous tyrant blinded by jealousy and hate. He was only a shell, he himself doomed to pursue one goal until his ultimate demise. His own fate had already been sealed long ago, by his actions.

Stringer, in the deepest and darkest place of his heart doubted the words. But he could have no doubt – The Master was right. One could not doubt, accept any weakness to be powerful. He must not let himself be corroded by Cooper's influence: must deny it. Ironically it was his own influence doing this to him, this torment. He spoke.

"Make him suffer for ever daring think he could ever be the world's greatest thief. Not when you are the true master. Make him feel what it is like to have someone steal your ambition away from you. With power like yours, the knowledge and realisation you have, the only master thief really is..."

The Master swiftly cut him off with a single glare of his blood-red eyes. Stringer did not think for one moment of disobeying him. Apparently this information was to remain not divulged. The look almost penetrated him, forcing him to stop speaking. He shuddered, the power of that one look, its intention, slicing right through him.

He was its pawn.

"Enough of this," whispered the eyes, "We need to initiate the scheme. The first machination must begin before Sly Cooper is to come too close to this island. The Death Ray must be completed. And you can do that for me: go and find your friend, obtain its whereabouts, then kill him. Show no mercy and do whatever must be done to achieve your goal. You have only one chance, and I do not accept failures. Do it: or feel my wrath yourself!"

"I will assist you in this endeavour," whispered Stringer. "I will do all that I can to ensure our success, no matter what the cost. You can place faith in me. Hating him as much as you, I will faithfully assist you to destroy Cooper. Then for my personal revenge: Sir Nigel must be dead at my hands."

"Good, very good," said The Master viciously, but cool. "You will need this determination to succeed; not fail me as I fear others might in the near future. You must be cold and without emotion. Show no mercy to Cooper and his friends. I can tell you will be a loyal servant, you will not hesitate – you must not. This will give you the power you seek. Follow my plans and here me, know that this is true. You have great potential as my loyal aid. You alone have been chosen to serve my purpose."

He laughed demonically inside his mind. Flattering Stringer was just the tool; if he failed in his task, he could easily dispatch him. The Master felt no emotion towards the weasel. He was but a tool to be honed and then discarded after its purpose: as Sly Cooper now was. This incredible heartlessness gave The Master but one goal: eternity and power for his own gain.

In short, a terrible threat to be unleashed on all that was passionate and loved in the world. It would take courage, honesty and conviction – strength to take him down. Strength which Stringer he had robbed himself of years ago, that he might have once had: he needed to confront his inner self and finally admit that he had been wrong. This path he had chosen could never achieve a worthy goal. Without love, his hunger never satisfied with lack of it; only to consume the world in its shadow.

"I am honoured, I will serve you well," said Stringer, "My master. But what if I cannot fulfil your purpose? There may be times when certain factors will hinder my loyalty to you."

"My loyal servant Eric Winchester Raleigh has already failed me. Interpol will have him now and Cooper will regain some of that book. The Thievious Raccoonus can never be his again. If nothing is done, I fear that one single thief will crumble the empire I have built. You must help me stop him or suffer as he does. There is not backing out now. You have vowed to protect and work for the remnants of my empire. There is no what-if, only do. If you cannot do that then the whole means of my empire has failed. There are no second chances, and I will show no mercy."

There was no attempt to conceal it; The Master's last words were a threat. And the message was clear, horribly and apparently clear. His own life would become the least of his worries. The real crime was the damage and destruction that could be done by this menace.

"I, I understand," said Stringer in subtle terror. "There must be nothing to hinder me, I understand that now. Please excuse me for my, ah, ignorance. I will act as whatever I must to achieve my goals for you." He paused, fearfully eyeing the black apparition.

"I will kill Sir Nigel, then Bentley - his wretched son and Sly Cooper's companion – as well. Then we will have power, both of us together. For these two would be but obstacles. They must be shown the truth, like that raccoon: the truth that they were foolish and naive to resist us. I will have my vengeance and you will be one step closer to your goal. My power and your assertion as the greatest and only master thief in the world, the title you deserve. No one will dare defy you once my Spear-Head is in your hands - at least each of your four associates possesses a piece. I understand that I must take down that final obstacle."

Stringer was trying to overcome the sparkle of goodness that remained in him. But, despite all his efforts, it could not be erased. As it had once been, this was more true to his heart than any of his spoken words – only he did not admit so.

"Excellent Stringer," said The Master, "This is exactly what I need to hear. This is exactly how you must act to be worthy of me. Now, here is what you must do. Track down Sir Nigel, however that is to be done. Find him and obtain the whereabouts of your super weapon. The Spear-Head is pivotal for my Death Ray. Find its location and all remaining components. Gather them and bring it all to me here. Leave no stone unturned. Make sure he turns nothing over to the Cooper gang. To show him I am his own true better, I would have the Death Ray complete before Cooper faces me – but this is not essential. Just find Sir Nigel and obtain the Spear-Head from him. Hinder the Cooper gang – then kill Sir Nigel and his son if you can. Leave Cooper to my claws. Do you understand me?"

"I understand my master," said Stringer. "And it will be done. I will have the Spear-Head before Sir Nigel has the chance to use it against me - us. You have my word."  
"Good," The Master hissed, "You leave tonight – go forth and do my bidding. Remember you have but one purpose. Fulfil it and do not fail. Hinder Cooper, kill Sir Nigel – his son - and bring the Spear-Head to me. Go now and act, act without mercy. You must be cold and without pity, without emotions that could be used against you. Remember that this is a weakness. That is one importance above all. Do not let Cooper manipulate you with his notions of 'love' and 'thief's honour'. Otherwise you will have failed me. Remember this and go forth now – I would not wish to 'terminate' our agreement. Remember me; what I am."

Fear churned through Stringer, fear at The Master's anger and wrath. But he drove himself to issue a final sentence. "I will, my master – I will and it will be done." He shuddered, feeling close to terror at The Master's words. _This was not something that could be messed with. He was now in its will and had no way out; he had made his choice. But he embraced it – he would have what he truly deserved in the end._

If only he could know of what would come of his actions, he might not have committed the acts he now would. There was always hope. A single, dirty little tear rolled down his jowl. He sniffed it back, not wanting to reveal his second of weakness and vulnerability. He could not love, as did his master. Stringer now had a duty, in which he would succeed: breaking apart a family, crumbling its love and compassion in hatred – a heartless deed.

He was not this monster. Unless he could realise the full atrocities of this, as his old self once could, his own satisfaction or redemption would never be achieved. A coward was not he who refused to kill, but he who killed without the most reason. _True courage_ – Carmelita's words echoing back – _was to know not when to take a life, but when to spare it_. You needed to know what was truly important, realise the importance of others than yourself, over ambition. Ambition could only get you so far. Stringer still had a chance, a small chance.

He may have a long journey to get there, but it existed. There was hope. He just needed the reason to see it. His true potential was beside his friend, not against him. There was a reason for what he had done to Stringer. Love – love for the old friend he could still save, had that faith in. But he could not let that come between what he must do to stop Stringer hurting others and his self. Stringer was too blinded by his anger to realise that his friend had always loved him, done what he had by an act of faith and belief. _His feet were back on the floor.  
_  
He must see that. Then maybe he could realise again what was truly important, to his heart. _The Master was gone. _Unlike The Master, he could still be saved; his own glimmer of pure hope, revealed by his choice and his choice alone_. _He just needed to be able to see that.

_Status Check: Master and subject have made contact – first machination is now in progress._  
_  
_**The Isle of Wrath, Southern Wales: 12:18 AM.**

Carmelita looked up. At the shout of one of the men she noticed where they had come to. The party stood in front of a massive set of wrought iron gates: the gates that halted their path. She issued an automatic command in rapid French, not forgetting to conceal her Spanish accent. One officer parted himself from the company with a pair of bolt cutters. He diligently began to slice away at the lock.

They all stood and waited, milling around the lawn. Carmelita glanced into the compound beyond, seeing a haphazard range of gates, towers and alarms ordered in stringent patterns. An unconscious figure lay prostrate at the far end of the lawn. This was the aftermath of Sly's work no doubt. She had to admit, the raccoon was good: it was a real shame he didn't work for the police, with skills such as his. But patience was its own virtue: she had time with Sly, time to make him see sense. He was different: he really cared.

That made all the difference to her. It made a world of difference; it told her that he was not just another happy-go-lucky kid, but someone with actual depth: even if his persona as a thief hid it most of the time. He had character – he was charismatic and charming undoubtedly, but in the end he really cared. That showed perfectly true through his friends. None of these so called master criminals had actual friends. She just had to bring that side of him out – she was just about the only one who could.

But first – she reminded herself – she had to capture the thief. Then she could find the raccoon inside. What are you thinking said her mind's voice? You cannot be seduced by his silver tongue and suave thief act. She would not be seduced. First she knew that Sly had to be straightened out and set right. She was reluctant because she already knew that it was his choice when that would happen. She could not control that. That decision would be for him when he was ready. She would just have to be persistent and not give up on him. Follow him until the very end, which gave this crazy relationship the meaning she couldn't deny.

"Why is it always the cute ones that go bad?" Carmelita mumbled to herself. "He's obsessed with me I bet." She tried to laugh at her little joke. But her other side did not have the heart. For now, it ruled over her. She had a connection with Sly – whether through her own decision or by her path, she did not know. _Why is love so complicated?_

But there was no point in denying it. She had choices to make sooner or later. Choices regarding Sly; he had choices concerning her as well. She, he also, sensed that both were trying to delay this moment. What would be the ultimate outcome? But she also knew that the time was not right: they were not ready. As she had told herself before, that time was yet to come. She would not interrupt the path, because it was meant to run this way. Her heart would tell her when the time was right. One choice had already been made – for both of them. They would see this adventure through, possibly many more besides.

Even if she did capture Sly he would find a way to fulfil his destiny. Who knew how long it would take? But it would happen, happen for both of them. He could be a good person, with conviction and belief. She just had to try and give him the chance: this was her hardest choice. The other side of her told her he could not have that chance. He was a thief and needed to understand the implications of his actions. Even if he did, he still chose to act. But he had never hurt anyone doing what he loved she reasoned. Except, perhaps, the girl he might love. No, she had made her choice. When she could, she would give him a chance, when the time was right. He deserved that chance.

No, he doesn't, her other side argued. Once again, she overrode this argument. Sly was not just some criminal. Ultimately it was the choices and decisions you made that defined who you were. Sly was undeniably a rogue, out for some fun, but he always had put compassion for others and their wellbeing first. He had never allowed his ambition to cause harm to anyone other than himself. Come to think of it, whenever she had been in enough danger, the raccoon had popped up at just the right moment. Always heroically putting his matters and life on the line to save her: for want of a satisfying metaphor. That was the true Sly: and when the time was right, he would come forth. But that was not now.

They both were fighting for a reason, with something worth fighting for. She would pursue the thief, but not the true raccoon within him. She fought for the man she loved, she would fight for Sly. For what he stood for - not the thief - but his true self was worth so much more than any treasure. She felt twisted for admitting it. But this was the right way to handle him. Look beyond the exterior, read the pages within. That would tell her the real story. And now that's what she was trying to do. He was a good person, but the thief inside kept on getting in the way: kept on forcing the divide between them. Capturing the thief was part of the long path she chose to take: it was hard sometimes, but she must not give in. She had to uncover the boy behind the thief as well: _there is good in everyone, no matter how small_; her father had used to say. _It's just that sometimes you have to dig a little more to find it.  
_  
This was her choice: to pursue him to better understand him. In the same way, he had made this choice. He too looked beyond her exterior. They held something more than surface value for each of them. To not just them this was the true value. Look beyond the cover and read the contents. She was only just beginning and she looked forward to the journey for the finish. Even her business side couldn't help admitting she was excited about her coming adventures with the raccoon.

She disliked the thief and what he stood for: what that meant to her. She would bring him to justice. But she could not dislike the Sly underneath and what he stood for. The motives which mattered to him the most, those which his father had taught him never to forget; this meant just as much to her if not more so. She would try to find him for all she was worth: the inner vision of her parents smiled, egging her on. They approved of what she thought, hopefully would have been proud of their daughter.

_If you see goodness in_ _someone, never just give up on them without chance_, her mother had said. She would have been proud that her daughter never gave up, refused to be broken. Fighting for a person she had chosen to love, who could love her back. She had so much to learn about him and his world. It was not simple but complicated. But then what was worth having if you could not work for it, lacking depth and meaning? She surprised herself at this: she was not even quite sure what she saw in Sly, if she could trust him at all. Indeed she did have a lot to settle about Sly, a lot to discover: and she would find out, whether there was trust. Her feelings for the thief stirred within her, most noticeable those of love – of course.

She could not deny that she was sceptical of Sly's honest intentions. But he was worth fighting for. There had always been a part of her, since they met, that knew he was a true master thief – what it took to be true as opposed to the thugs she despised; the real skill of it. But besides that, he was always a true believer in goodness, care and honour – for, like her, what would it make him otherwise? This was the same for his friends, who had already shown their true values during the fight with Raleigh's men. How could they claim to be unique without that, different to any other? They all knew the answer. She smiled her eyes watery with tears. She disliked the thief, but appreciated what he tried to stand for. She would bring them to justice. But she would never forget that they loved. They were really about protecting and not taking. She could always care for those who also cared. She cared enough that she would never hurt them, unable to live with herself if she did; for that would be the real end of justice, as either side knew.

She would have so much to discover and learn on her journey – about herself, but Sly and his friends as well.

#

"Hah, how far would you go to save someone you love?" General Aqualon jeered in Sly's face, the sweat running down his own. "How far would you go when all of society is against you and what you do? Would you succumb to your darkest side to save what is dearest to your heart; to be selfish for your own benefit?" Pressing his body forwards, his blades gradually forced Sly backwards. He struggled to keep the cane and his sword upwards, as he felt the wooden deck splinter under his toes. He was getting closer to the ring of flame. But he would not give up – precious and innocent lives depended upon him. He refused to break: the voice of his father egged him on within his mind.

"By fighting you I am already saving them," retorted Sly defiantly, "But you are too consumed in your own selfishness to see that. Yes, what I do may put me at odds with 'society' as you call it. But I care about the consequences of what I do. I would never go as far as you have; as far as you have to maintain power. I pride myself on compassion. I don't need to go to your lengths, because I know there are so many other ways than by force. I can act without turning myself into a monster. The true legacy of the Coopers is that we never forget what it is to feel pain – to laugh and to cry. That makes us human and that stopped us from sinking into the darkness you inhabit. Without this, we really would have been petty criminals, just as you think I am." Marius' face darkened, angered by Sly's resistance.

"What rubbish you speak," said the General, "Where is the great Thievious Raccoonus now? You will not kill me Cooper. I know you will not – just as any of your weakling friends. You would rather fight me to save a girl you can never have. How are you worthy of me when you allow yourself to be manipulated by emotion? You do not have the strength to finish this fight boy. Give up now and save yourself."

"That will never happen," cried Sly, "And you know that already very well. I will not kill you because I believe in saving any life that can be spared. I am not saving you – I am saving your life. That gives me the ability to beat you, because you fear remorse. All you villains fear remorse, because you are too cowardly to admit that true courage comes from knowing when to make the right choice. You can never place trust in each other: rather you crush anyone and everything before you, no matter who or what." He fixed the general in a gaze, making him flinch.

"Besides, I have already made this clear but you refuse to accept it. The real thief you speak of is before you: I have a reason to fight and something I am fighting for. I believe that there is potential in being a thief, but only when you know the limits. Once you cross that line you are no longer great but a selfish monster. Just as you have let yourself become. If you could understand this, then you would give up this folly. If your master could understand this, he would know that I will never give up."

"Then you are deluded raccoon," spat Aqualon, "And my doing will ensure your death."

Sly grinned at the General's ignorance, absolute refusal to listen and believe. "But you continue to commit your acts, because you are too selfish to know that fulfilment comes from respect for others. Respect for any life no matter how seemingly insignificant. You have caused your own destruction: cutting yourself off from the world and gradually getting eaten away by your darkest fears and sorrows. You drive yourself to destruction. I have the potential to beat you for one reason: it takes great thieves to make the Thievious Raccoonus, not the over way. To remember that, when my ambition may blind me from reality, I know my own greed will be my destruction. I remember what is really important: not power, wealth or riches."

"But it is power and riches that have given me glory," insisted General Aqualon. "Power and riches that make me who I am: I am a man far more powerful than you, with the world in the palm of my hand. I have the resources to squash you. There is no greater strength than fear of force and might."

"Again," said Sly, "You fail to grasp the real concept. It doesn't matter how much material wealth you posses: it won't change who you are. Only the choices you make and the path you decide on can do that. If you lack conviction and empathy, you will always be the same back-stabbing scoundrel. No amount of money can ever change that – only you can."

"What do you mean by this boy?" said Aqualon warily. "What do you mean by insulting my person?" He almost withdrew his weapons, so intent was he on the exchange.

"I mean that it is who I am that is important – my true nature. Once that is compromised I become like you. It is not what I desire that is truly important: not being a master thief. It is who I am and who I choice to be. I am a thief, but compassion for others always comes first. What point is there in getting what I want if I cannot be proud of myself, who I am? The true prize, beyond any treasure, is your own character. Who you care for: once you give that up in service of your desire, you are lost. I could not live with myself if my friends were ashamed of me: if one who I loved was ashamed of me. I will never forget that, knowing that I would be little more than a lowly criminal."

"Lowly is so right," said Aqualon, "Probably the most accurate thing you have ever said to me Cooper." He leered, but doubt remained in his eyes.

Sly sighed at the General's deliberate fooling of himself. "I would have no claim to fame, as you declare, because I would have no special quality that any other criminal doesn't. But I do and that is my feeling for love and remorse. I know you feel this, but you are too fearful of what your master will do if you revolt. Have the courage: do what is truly right. You don't have to be a coward. Try, for your own good – before it is too late – try for some remorse, please." Sly could hardly help but feel pity for the seething man before him.

He was a wreck, a victim of the jealously and hatred which he had allowed to consume him. How many more in the world could there be? He was so fortunate to know that this path only brought more pain and suffering, no matter what the material gain. Pain could not be cured with more pain, more suffering as The Fiendish Five was causing. It was only an endless well. It required courage – courage and trust – to save you from becoming an empty shell. That was all it would achieve in the end.

"Enough!" screamed the General. He was clearly incensed by Sly's unflinching belief and faith in compassion. It shook him, shocked him that the boy was so resilient. But he would break that strength: the boy would break under pressure. Then he would have his victory at last. He knew that his friend's lives could hang in the balance. Now to put an end to that and finish off his troubles: do him a favour. Show him that he never could have won: despite his deluded conviction. The thief would be finished now and he had to do it. There could be no more of this delay. And with Sly Cooper would go the last remnants of what his family stood for. This would shake the world, knowing that he was always nothing, nothing.

"I will finish you now Sly," he said, "Prepare to say goodbye to your friends and that naive vixen, mislead by goodness and justice. This is the last time you will ever see them. Know that you were wrong – that The Master was always greater than you."

"This is not the end for me," said Sly. "I will continue fighting while I can do more in the world. Your master has endured through pure spite. That is not true greatness, but an illusion he has built for himself. I guess it will only take me to finally show him that. He will not overcome me while I fight for what matters, unlike him. I am never truly selfish because I believe in the rights of anyone, that anyone has rights: even you. I fight not for myself, not just for myself, but the millions who truly believe that greatness lies in friendship and compassion. Without which, everyone would become isolated and afraid: just like you and Sir Raleigh. Not many could so they honestly want that – I believe you're not one of them."

"No, no, you're wrong Cooper – so wrong," spluttered Marius. He clearly lacked the conviction to believe in his words, for doubt hung on every syllable. Maybe he still had a chance. To chance to avoid the awful fate that awaited: who he would become.

Momentarily, Sly ignored their battle and looked with empathy into the General's eyes; make him understand. The two met and they were, for a split second, linked by a common comprehension. But this flickered and was gone. Saddened, Sly knew that he had only the single choice now. Aqualon's choice had been made. It was too late to save the general.

"This is your end Cooper," howled General Aqualon through the crackling and hissing flames. "Kiss your love goodbye." Then he launched himself at him. Sly's arms were splayed outwards and he was tossed away like a ragdoll, only just clutching his cane and sword. He landed with a sickening crunch at the edge of the ring. The fire glowed just over his head, making him sweat despite the downpour. Marius' men glaring at him from outside the circle, he stood to face his doomed enemy. The octopus was bearing down upon him, readying to finish him off. Sly readied himself, tensing his body – swishing his tail – for the attack.

But it did not come immediately. The General seemed to hesitate again, thoughts flashing in his eyes and face, before making the final decision. There was no going back for him now. He had made his final choice. He jumped for Sly and brought his blades down, intending a killing blow. But Sly feel to his knees and rolled back to the centre of the circle. He sprang up, spry and alert. He beckoned, waiting for his foe. If he had to do this, he wanted it over with: it was tragic enough that the General even had to fight him. Sir Raleigh should be who he really had to fight – the true monster behind these crimes in Wales.

"And now you will know the damage you have done; the people you have hurt in your pursuit of power," said Sly. "Now you will learn that such acts cannot go without return. You will feel for the crimes and know what you have done – the lives you have destroyed. And unlike me, once General Aqualon too, all for your own gain: concerned with little more than selfish motives will ultimately be what your downfall is."

Sly whispered this to himself, so that the General couldn't hear, but he meant it. He was not going to die here: Sir Raleigh and the rest of The Fiendish Five would live to know what they had done. He would not succumb to this tyranny of hatred, jealousy and greed. But he would not take a life in the process: any life was worth saving, which was important to show these fiends. Important to show he was a real, as much as a unique Cooper.

The General had begun to approach him again, more cautious than before. He knew that this was no longer an easy fight. Sly was a cunning opponent, as much as for him as any. But there would be no more mistakes: or it would be the last he ever made again. Driven on by fear he could not deny, Marius attacked with full ferocity. Sly was at the ready, as their weapons met for the second time that night. The real battle had begun: sword against cane.

An almighty clang sounded as the two combatants meet at the centre of the inferno. Sly grimaced with effort, holding his sword straight while balancing the cane in his left hand. Marius arched himself upwards, bearing down on Sly like some great beast. A maniacal grin lit his face, as if he cared not what happened as long as he killed his enemy. All sense of sanity and sole seemed to have gone. Something had snapped and turned him into a madman. A madman who had no limits in achieving his singular goal; Sly was only glad that none of his friends were here or someone may have gotten hurt. But no one would be hurt tonight: Raleigh would deal no more pain. He had met his match.

General Aqualon lashed out viciously with a tentacle and caught Sly in the chest. Sly gasped in surprise and anguish as an upper-cut met his chin and brought him to his knees. Through watering and windswept eyes he saw the General raising a blade, making ready to part his head from his body. Well that was not going to happen – they had grown rather fond of each other. Sly chuckled ironically at this joke and somersaulted backwards. Aqualon's blade crashed into the deck where he had been and stuck there. Roaring with wrath, he yanked at it, trying to pull it free. Sly was up on his feet and racing forwards when Marius wrenched the weapon free and tossed it straight at Sly.

Pushing off with his feet, Sly arced gracefully through the air. Performing an aerial pirouette he deflected the blade with his own as it sliced by. Time seemed to slow so that it sailed ghost-like by his face, about an inch from it, before planting itself in a wooden post. Then all sped up again as he landed on the ground and leapt up. Clutching three swords, Aqualon screeched and charged with his head down. Sly ran forward to meet him and the General's cap was knocked from his head. His large, smooth forehead gleamed in the torch light. His right lapel was torn in the collision and several pins scattered about the deck. He slipped on one and crashed onto his back.

His swords were spread about him, while he groaned in the middle. Sly stood back and waited for him to get up, knowing it was hardly good sportsmanship to strike an unarmed opponent. Besides, he was a Cooper, and he would never kill someone just because he could; even if they had already tried to kill him. That was his Cooper code of honour speaking: never take a life when it can be avoided. Compassion is what keeps you going and why you are fighting, because you are not like your enemy, but so much more than that.

Apparently Marius did not share this point of view because he roared and scuttled forwards like a spider. He scooped two of the fallen swords into his hands and stood erect, glaring at Sly with cold and pure hatred. A hatred he himself had manufactured – not Sly. What had he done to the octopus? It was all because of Raleigh. Corrupting not just himself but those he drew to him. This was the end at last: he had gone too far. This was not just about Sly's family anymore, but the wellbeing of every victim of the criminal. Sly was nearly given a pre-mature shave when a flash of silver shot over his head. The culprit clashed with the suit of armour whose sword he had borrowed. Then with a crash it all fell to the ground in a heap of metal. There was a sonorous boom then a pregnant pause.

But this was brief as Sly ducked the remaining two weapons from over his head. Snorting and grunting, writhing like a worm, General Aqualon became a torrent of fury. Sly twisted and weaved, barely able to strike a blow as he avoided getting hit himself. Amidst the chaos he noticed a jingling sound of metal. Snatching an eye-full of the General's belt, Sly spied a bulging ring of keys.

Keys! That was exactly what he needed. If he could just grab that ring and scarper quickly, he could grab the rest of his family's book. With access to all of the boat he would find a way up to the storm machine and take down Raleigh, then his vile creation. They could be out of here once that was down: he would collect Bentley and Murray then scram. Maybe a scrape with Carmelita along the way, but it could be done. She could have Raleigh instead. He didn't know what he was in for, knowing the fox. But Marius was not about to let Sly have the keys.

He tossed his body at Sly, ramming into him hard. Sly grunted and sweat poured down his nose. But then his muscles surged and he found a new strength. He pushed against the octopus; he suddenly gaped in surprise, and sent him toppling back. He stumbled but did not fall. Cracking his neck, Marius straightened up and pointed a silver blade at Sly.

"Come and meet me raccoon," he said, "This is enough of your folly. Just lay down your life now and be done with it. Walk honourably into the arms of death."

"Hah – pull the other one," said Sly, "Who do you think you are speaking like some big honcho? You yourself know this is a futile: your heart is not really in it. But, if you insist, I suppose it is useful we come closer. I need something from you." He smiled cheekily.

"What the heck?" was all Marius had time to say - Sly had jumped right at him.

The clever raccoon had only just remembered the lucky charm Bentley had issued. The horseshoe-shaped magnet was nestled in his leg satchel. With it he could retrieve that key ring. Flicking open the satchel he slid it out and held it in his left hand. Positioning himself appropriately, Sly shot by Marius and raised the magnet. He turned it on and the dials hummed, emitting a magnetic pulse. The keys seemed to pull at the belt of their own accord, reaching for the magnet. Then there was a tearing nose and they came free. The bunch of keys spun in the air and stuck to the magnet. Sly punched the air with a fist – throwing his sword aside – then slid onto the deck. He had the key to his success now. The magnet was shoved into the satchel; the key ring went into his backpack. Marius gawked in outrage. His face went red. Throwing control to the winds, he raced for the thief.

Sly became serious and realised now was the time to act. He had to get out of here and stop all this madness. He had not intended for this to happen. He tensed and bounced into action. Using the General's shoulders as a springboard he pushed away and grabbed his sword as he passed. He may yet need it until he escaped Aqualon and his men, but only to protect himself and not to really hurt. Armed with the keys, his cane, and the sword, Sly was ready for the dash. He eyed the farthest side of the circle, noting where the flames crackled the most. That would be where he must make his getaway.

Putting all the power he could into his legs, Sly propelled his whole body at the General. His muscles just about on fire Sly tucked his ears and legs in, slotting neatly between Marius' outstretched legs. He soared directly at the flaming ring and curled his body into a ball. With just enough room to spare he skimmed the top, feeling the fire brush his tunic, and came down slightly ungainly. He flashed a last gaze at Aqualon, telling him why he did this, and then turned to run. Who knew if he would ever understand? He had only a few precious seconds before they came after him. He heard Marius bellow and his men reply in an incoherent shower. The deck began to vibrate as many footsteps thundered in his direction.

All of a sudden the rain seemed to intensify and pour down in a solid torrent. He again heard Marius scream something. What had he just said - something about putting out the fire? Obviously another manipulation by Raleigh's machine; he glanced over his shoulder and saw the flaming inferno become enveloped by a concentrated downpour. It sizzled out and disappeared, the deck smoking, before the rain returned to its previous drizzle. Worst of all, the General was now free and charged forward behind his men. Hollering commands to his hoard, the men charged on in pursuit of Sly. Marius ran along in their wake, waving his two blades above his head. Sly turned and fled, the group of thugs pursuing him.

He shot by a light tower and between absurd stacks of turrets and other buildings. A wooden archway loomed up before him and he barrelled right on through. His footfalls were magnified as he sped along the passage, as were his pursuers. With extra effort he surged on, holding his sword at a horizontal angle in his right hand. He raised the cane vertically in his grip, clasped in the left hand. He felt like some knight running from a band of thugs. Was this what his ancestor Sir Galleth had been like? He noted to look it up when he found that entry.

He exited the far end of the passage and found himself on an open area of the deck. Here he could see the lagoon stretch away to join the sea, facing out to the south. An enormous length of chain was strung from the deck, tethered to a tremendous anchor resting on the lake bed. Some massive cannon was cradled at the edge of the boat and faced out into the night. An iron archway of trusses spanned a consecutive gateway and two sides of the space were ringed with metal railings. The various portholes and windows glowed out of the stacks of buildings. He could now clearly regard the storm machine, spouting steam into the sky. He noted the cannon: he was closer but not there yet.

There was a shout and he heard the men coming along the passage. He only had just enough time to look down and see light reflecting off a surface of green glass. It was another clue bottle. And another clue meant opening another vault and more pages. He grabbed the bottle and retrieved its scrap of paper. It went into his satchel. The group burst forth from the passage and tore onwards. His breath caught in his throat and he started running again. Every now and then he noticed another clue bottle and whipped it up, retrieving its clue. Stuffing each into his satchel, he passed under the metal trusses. Another few harried seconds and he must have counted about thirty clues. Bottles were scattered in a trail behind him. Another vault was open to him. But that would not be just yet.

The deck stretched out further and another iron arch of trusses appeared. But he was running out of room and there was no place to go. He was coming to the prow of the boat, where it tapered to a long point. Gantries and steps led up to higher levels and an extensive mezzanine. He would have to go up there. But he did not have much time left. The men were closing in on him. Panting desperately, he pushed on for all he was worth.

"Run him down you fools," screamed Aqualon, "He must not be allowed to escape with those keys. He cannot reclaim any of those pages from his family's book. We shall all suffer otherwise. Run him down and kill him – kill him!" He spoke with an absolute ferocity.

Just about the only thing getting Sly through this turmoil was his unwavering belief in his friends, his value of love and compassion. The affection he felt for Carmelita no matter how impossible their relationship seemed. What the heck, he loved her – at least, he thought he did. Why else would he feel so strongly towards her? The most bizarre quandary was that they both felt the same way. But neither could really show it for an unspoken reason.

They were opposites. Now was not the right time for Sly to advance that relationship. He was not yet ready for that choice. Now he was a fledging master thief and proud to be so. But Carmelita was in his future. This was one of things he fought for. He could prove to her in the meantime that he truly cared. Show her he was not just another criminal. He desired fulfilment in skill and not riches. They were but trophies of his triumphs over the Cooper enemies, the real fiends in the world.  
He had feelings for her and was not just toying with her heart, playing with her emotions. Someday he really meant to take that step and tell her how he felt; it was not just a silly game. He would explain this to her when the time allowed. It was a serious relationship he felt he had with the red fox. He just had to set that relationship apart from the flirting one they shared when he was a thief on the job. That was just all a bit of fun, something entirely separate. But behind it all he really meant what he said in jest. He just had to work out his feelings and choose when he was ready. Make the girl he loved aware of this. It may be years away, but once he had fulfilled his work as a thief – passing on his legacy to a worthy successor – he would join her.

He could move on to the next phase of his life properly. And then he would be with her; always. He just had to work out his feelings and act. He had to give her the chance and time to do the same. He would be loyal: ultimately she could trust the other man she believed in within the thief. He wanted her to know that. Let her work out her feelings. When she would really need him – there would be times – she could trust him to be there for her. Be there for so much more and many people.  
Sly felt genuine love and, often, affection for Carmelita. She needed to know that she could trust him because of his occupation as a thief. Because the very ideal he held close to his heart – the legacy of his family – told him what was right as well as wrong. He knew when to stop, when the time needed him to act for others and put their safety or wellbeing first. He knew all of this and cared very much for it. Without this he would be no more than the petty thief that he had described to his enemies time and time again.

Because he was a master thief, he knew that the real skill, the real treasure was that others could love you, have a friend in you and trust you. They could have compassion for you. Because of the double-life and battle of personal and exterior morals as a thief, Sly and his friends could claim to understand this like Carmelita did. In the end it was like they were both fighting for the same cause: albeit on different sides of the law.

As he had told himself before: what was the point in stealing if just for the sake of gain? How could you possibly deserve it if not taking from a criminal who would deceive, embezzle and lye? She could trust him because he knew that, when it came down to it all, it was not the money or gold he hoped to gain. He was interested in the skill of being a master thief – that was the true greatness of the Coopers. And to show these master criminals the wrongs they had committed against others for their own gain.

There was at least one other important reason why, when she needed it the most, Carmelita could trust Sly: his greatest treasure was in the true friendship he had with Bentley and Murray. She herself was a treasure greater to Sly than even she knew. When he was ready, when he had passed on the legend of the master thief, he could make that choice. The final choice he needed to be with her. His friends would be happy for him, not stop him. If this was what he wanted, if he had chosen it, then they would always remain friends. That bond would never be broken, no matter what obstacle was placed between them. He would never give up on her and never let her go. He would fight for it as long as he had breath in his body. He would never give up hope: that was one reason why she could trust him.

Because he could be relied upon always when there needed to be trust between them. Just as she followed Sly, he would never give up. Never forget what he stood for. Ultimately, that was why Carmelita struggled with her attraction to him. He was unique. What he had been through made him the man worth fighting for: the man she could one day love. The trials Sly had been through made him more the boy than she ever thought he could be; ever thought she could admit to herself. He was worth fighting for because, like her, neither of them ever gave up hope. Ever gave up in believing what was truly right was always worth fighting for until the end.  
Although both struggled with their inner feelings toward each other, in the end they both endured for the same goal. They both fought for a reason with something worth fighting for. To protect anything greater than material riches: the idea and symbolism of compassion and love. In the end, the only set difference was that they were on opposite sides of the law; the lady and the thief quarrelling against each other, but ultimately united by choice and action.

This was what Carmelita had been able to briefly see and admit before. She could make her choice at the right time, when Sly could make his. For now they were on opposite sides with a common purpose, though achieving this rather differently. What Sly fought for, what he deep down really wanted – what he really did hope was there – had been there all along. Locked up in the heart of one who had always felt compassion for him, but shared his troubles: apparently more mature perhaps, but still had difficulty expressing her feelings. She loved him but in a different kind of way.

That was a large part of why she pursued the raccoon. Because she fought for him and what he stood for beyond the thief, of what he was ultimately a symbol. It may not be the time now for this to come to light, but there was belief there. She believed in him: someday he could make his choice. She could make hers. And while that existed, that chance of love and compassion, he would always push on. Perhaps he was not done being a thief yet, but he would get there in the end. He was not done being a thief, but he would take away from his experience what really mattered: the true meaning behind his family and their master lineage. Then he would transfer that to the relationship he one day hoped to share with Carmelita. Putting all the love, kindness and care he could into it. For that is what he genuinely felt. He would never want to hurt her, knowing emotional hurt was always the greatest pain.

He knew his friends would agree - realising this was truly important. He just wanted to be able to show his true feelings to her: as she yearned to but felt she could not to him. In a little corner of his mind, the image – the face of his father smiled. He looked upon his son and felt a mixture of pride and regret – sadness at all that had been lost. He was proud of his son because he was achieving the true goal he had hoped.

He had never lost and would never lose his humanity or compassion. This girl had shown him this: she was important to him. He was proud no matter what path Sly would choose. He could be a master thief if he chose, but if this was important to his son, then it was always the most precious thing of all. The legend would always live on as an idea – the very principals behind it embodied by those who believed in it. Ideas could not be destroyed – as if they were bullet proof! There was hope in his son, in his friends and this girl who he hoped that he could one day love. In reality, that was all he had ever really wanted out of his son; a treasure more precious than anything he had stolen. It was all he had ever wanted.

His parents were always in his heart, walking in the stars above. Although he hardly remembered his mother, Sly would remember both of them for what they gave him, what they meant and symbolised for him. For him, too, Carmelita walked in the stars, almost separated from him in another realm. And so he did too in a way; for the stars were like a symbol of what he held dear in his heart. His friends were up there too, walking amidst the realm of stars. But these ideas were never out of reach, because this was hope. He dared to really live and to love: to walk in that realm of starlight with his loved ones. Where his deeds of passion and care counted: gaining his greatest treasure. Always to be loved and held dear, a symbol for so much more than just ambition or jealousy like his nemesis - hope.

All of them would be remembered in the feast of starlight.

**Chapter 10 of 13 in Part 2 of 6.  
Well, there you have it. I decided to use this chapter to give Winthrop a bit more character and introduce a plot-line involving Clockwerk and Stringer:**  
**This is intended to later intertwine with Bentley as a bit of his own personal back-story. And I will work on Murray too.**  
**For those of you who noticed, yes, I did change Carmelita and Winthrop's relationship, but I thought it made for a nicer story arc.**  
**Look out for chapter 14 in about two to three weeks, which will expand on Neyla and bring back another minor character.**  
**Until next time, enjoy reading - Creative Raccoon.**


	15. Chapter 14 - Miss Puffin Comes to Town

**Chapter Fourteen: Miss Puffin Comes to Town.**

**Author's Note: This chapter is of a shorter length as it was originally one and the same with the previous chapter thirteen. However, it just began to get too big and the premature birth of chapter fourteen came about. I originally intended for Part 2: A Tide of Terror to reach chapter fifteen - twelve chapters. Adding Miss Puffin in bloated the length of the original chapter.**

The raccoon had never forgotten it in all his time as a thief. Despite his occupation, Carmelita could trust the real Sly Cooper: the way in which he had trusted his own father. Trusted him to care for his son, one he loved more than any wealth. Always remembering this was most important, even above being a thief – being there when he was really needed. His father had laid down his life for Sly: because he knew that his son was more important than anything else he could lose. Sly would have been killed if he had not done so.

That would have been the real treachery and ended the Cooper line anyway, breaking the code of honour. Besides, he had believed in his son, known that he would never give up and strive to restore the legacy. If that was his choice: it had been his father's choice before him. But he could always be proud of his son, for not giving up in the face of adversity, refusing to be broken, even when he had been left alone: the last of the Coopers. That was the true Cooper spirit: one Carmelita could understand - refusing to relinquish love and compassion even in hardship, because that separated you from becoming a true villain.

For what really were you if you could not say you had ever truly loved? Sly thought that any master criminal - as opposed to a master thief - could say they had once loved. Been turned bitter by the pain of loss and forgetting what they once were. Losing their trust and faith, allowing it to consume who they had been; but what they could not understand was that love was only as strong as the person. Belief and conviction in your self were what defined it. This was interpreted as a weakness, shunned because they had lost the courage. The courage to remember their hurt and pain of the past: someone strong did not shun this but embraced it.

After all, Sly – and Carmelita he suspected – had been born of hardship, Bentley and Murray too. Do not let it hold you back, but remember it and be grateful. Allow yourself to move on by accepting your past; Sly had done this. Refusing to accept that would only grow within you, driving one to commit the acts of hurt and pain: this reflected their own feelings because, by refusing to accept it, they dwelled on it and only allowed it to corrupt their true nature. Cloud their ability to love and feel compassion. What they did only mirrored the torment with them. It was your nature that made you who you were.

Sly needed to provide Carmelita with the reason to trust him: he sensed she was sceptical that it could exist. This troubled her and kept them apart. He needed to provide her with the evidence that the boy she thought was in him really did exist, there for her when he knew one in who her love was placed should be. But that he was not ready yet: he was not yet finished with his current path. It pained him, but she needed to know that he had a long way before his path as a master thief had been concluded. He knew that he had a lot more to discover before the time when he handed the legend on.

To whom he didn't yet know – his friends perhaps? Once she knew, he could at least be comforted that she would wait – always, as long as he provided her with the truth to see the real raccoon inside him. Not just a thief but one she could love – that her feelings really did have meaning. Then she would wait for him, and never give up. There would always be a resolution they could come to. It was just a matter of trust in patience: biding his time and following where his heart took him.

This is what kept these villains apart, cold and hateful from the rest of the world. Never having a true friend or trusting anyone. They never thought they could trust anyone at all. That was a trait of a real criminal: something which Sly conspicuously lacked. Without friendship and trust, you essentially were a villain, for anyone who was not had one of these things in some form. Even those who pretended to be villains could never truly be so. There was no conviction in being so if you had trust: because you could only believe so without this. It was the reason why anyone became like this in the first place.

Because they had managed to twist and delude themselves into thinking that compassion was not important. Only because they could see it as the one way to escape their grief: by forgetting and never accepting. This then made one susceptible to greed and hunger for power: feeling betrayed by what they had lost. But in the end they had only lost themselves: destroyed who they had once been by the mad desire to escape from pain and remorse. A real hero knew what it was to laugh and to cry, embracing it, making them luckier than any villain. They could know what it was to feel.

A criminal like Sir Raleigh had to keep it bottled up, remaining cold without feeling. There was no reason to express it anymore. Eventually this would turn him into a monster. A monster of pure hatred and jealousy, nothing more in the end as it ate away. All because they had allowed grief to overcome them: lost the courage to resist and fight for something of greater value than any gold. As much as they tried, this could not bring them comfort. Only realisation could do that in the end: but if they insisted in clutching on to the idea of weakness in suffering, then this may never happen. This was the true evil and why villains could always exist; why there was always darkness against light. Because they thought that killing, extorting and robbing could bring you anything you wanted. But it did not, only furthering your desire and destroying you in the end.

This path was self-destructive: there could be no end to it if continued. There was no hope in it, for it only feed on itself and continued on forever creating more torment. A villain became a villain; ultimately because they gave themself no reason to truly believe there was a better future out there. They gave themselves no hope that one day there would be light: there was no hope that they could do better than what they had.

They became so because they destroyed what reason they had to hope for a better life. In most ways, they became like they were because they believed they were worthless to society, turning against their own self. There was no hope or potential in them anymore, so they might as well succumb to their deepest regrets and fears. This was the act of villainy they had committed; once done there was no turning back. Almost none - not unless they retained that inkling of hope, one that was so essential. A slither of regret, kept there by a symbol of love.

Sometimes it just took a small nudge to bring that out. To realise the true mistake they had made; forgetting what it was to have hope. Some could be saved, if someone would act – someone like Sly, Carmelita. Discarding hope, a villain had destroyed what decent potential he thought had remained. This was indeed how they had become so: they could do no goodness, so they might as well commit bad deeds.

They had tricked themselves into thinking there was no hope left for a better life left. Society would only see them as a villain, and that's all they would ever be – isolated. In reality they themselves had now become their worst enemy. Because of what they had done, they could only see themselves as someone wicked. This had never been caused by others around them. It was only your own belief that made you who you were – defined your nature. They had destroyed themselves, believing that they were little more than a villain, defined by greed.

Sly had believed he could be something much more. This was where they had gone wrong. Ultimately by the grief in their own belief, they had come to define themselves as something evil. And if they were unable to realise that they could be something more – that there was always hope in the future if you believed in it – then they would always see themselves as a criminal. They became prisoners of their own self. Unable to truly see that hope and potential was always there, but only if you chose to see it - it was all down to choice; they could be nothing more while they imprisoned themselves, feeding on despair. Gradually watching themselves rot away to the villain they thought they were: they only ever would become because they had allowed it. The loss of courage and the hope to believe: never giving way to hope - only to darkness.

Sly could tell that this had been the fate of the Master of The Five. He was no longer a living being, but a symbol for the very idea of hate, jealousy and deceit. He could be no more than those emotions, long eaten away be his obsession with destroying the Coopers. Yet Sly was still to unravel the depths of this mystery. And as long as lived to fight, to continue this journey, he would discover what could have possibly possessed anyone to slaughter his family. A deep corruption of self, consumed with one idea alone – long apart from anything he would ever do. His friends were with him, supporting him all the way. Then there was Carmelita, a bright beacon of hope for the future: for hope was invaluable.

Without hope what reason was there to continue? He always had hope, while there could be innocence and kindness. He was always there to fight for what was truly right, when he was needed. That alone was a symbol of hope. And it drove him on: on to discover his path. On to realise that there was always potential in things to come. Conviction gave him a future – he would always have one. Always have one because he himself believed it could be true: making a world of difference that his enemies would never understand. Sly was always different, with real potential to gain from being a thief. Not like what they were know – The Fiendish Five. His nature had become the real treasure, because of who he chose to be. What he knew to value the most.

Sly had just enough time to glance up at the stars above. They glinted like silver coins, winking and smiling at him. Encouraging him on, as if telling him he was doing the right thing. How courageous he had been and would be. They were a symbol of hope and he felt protected. Comforted by the pure light of their glow, this stiffened his resolve. He would get out of this. He had always possessed the ability, an ability which is only getting stronger. He fought for a reason: the hope he had meant there was something worth his fighting for. He grinned happily, able to be briefly warmed by their blanket of light.

Then he remembered he was being pursued – with an important goal he must complete. He would complete for the sake of all that was kind and good in the world. He sped away, the shouts of Aqualon's men ringing out in the night behind him. But he never forgot the hope he had seen in the stars, the real legend and legacy of his role as a Cooper. Immortalised by the trust his friends placed in him; the trust Carmelita thought he could deserve if given the chance. What he truly believed in, what he truly stood for – like Carmelita guessed he did – forever remembered by the feast of starlight.

"Follow him idiots, follow him," screamed Aqualon in a rage. "That wretched thief must not escape. All he stands for is a danger to us. He cannot be allowed to live or the very idea of him will crumble what we have built. Chase him and kill him." He gasped savagely for breath. "With his death we can finally bring about the end of an era, a bloodline. The very last of a deluded legacy, always soft and never prepared to do what a true thief would do. Run him down and snuff him out – the very last of The Cooper Clan!" He almost seemed to be preaching to the heavens, laughing demonically as if he had completely lost his mind. He had indeed gone over the edge: it was too late for Sly to save him, driven mad by Sir Raleigh's influence of hatred, jealousy and deceit.

The path in front of him seemed to shift in and out of focus as he ran, his breath thumping loudly in his ears. The fact that he might be killed at any minute magnified it, so that it pumped inside his very head. It was funny that, at the precise moment when you could lose it all, your heart seemed to beat faster. Clinging on to every last bit of life it could. Realising that to live was indeed a very precious thing – but he could not afford to contemplate any longer as a vicious dagger, eighteen inches long, sliced by his left ear and dug into a brick wall. It twanged in the mortar, still tailing some of Sly's fine gray hairs.

_Whew, that was just too close_, thought Sly. _But I'm a master thief – a Cooper – I can keep on my feet long enough to outsmart these guys_

Sly began ascending a metal staircase, taking the steps two at a time. It began to arch out over a corrugated iron truss, which in turn met at another mezzanine on the other side. He was now running along the roof of one of the crazy buildings. The roof peaked and dipped jaggedly, steaming chimney stacks belching steam on either side. Sly coughed but did not stop. He twirled the cane and heaved his right shoulder, attempting to keep the sword raised. His muscles felt like they were on fire holding it up; it felt like it weighed about thirty kilograms. Then, with an innate sense he had been born with, he swung it behind him and flung himself backwards through the air. The sword deflected another dagger aimed at his back. He came down running as the dagger fell to the rooftop. He felt that little more proud of himself; this sense was a trademark of the Cooper family. His ancestor Henriette 'One-Eye' Cooper had even been said to sniff out gold stolen by pirates.

There was a shriek of frustration from who knew who. General Aqualon bellowed again. Sly was approaching a tower of buildings, stacked atop his own like a child's puzzle. It was an absurd combination of battlements and turrets, gantries and towers. Pipes stuck out everywhere and hissing steam cloaked it as a ghostly veil. The glowing yellow windows shone like the eyes of some beast. Really the whole creation was a beast. But now Sly also notice large glass windows – pompous like their creator. After all, somewhere in the bowls of the boat had to be Raleigh's real palace. Surely he did not lurk all the time in his diabolical floating invention.

Ahead of him, in the side of the structure, a large gaping portal lay open. The door itself was like a huge steel circle, not far removed from something like a bank vault. It was imbedded with rivets and surmounted by a wheel. From within the dim passage Sly could hear a great groaning and whirring - at last; the belly of the beast. Through that entrance must be the inner workings of Raleigh's mastermind. Only now Sly was the spanner that would be thrown in the works. _Let's see how long the Terror of the Seas lasts when I've finished with_ _him_, Sly thought. That'll _be the end of the dreaded Welsh Triangle: time to teach him that underhanded dealings and backstabbing get you nowhere_. Only he would have to get somewhere or he himself might experience a stabbing.

He was shocked when he heard the distinct chatter of automatic fire.

Craning his neck to see he observed that one of the squid men had conjured up a machine gun and let off a volley of fire. The barrel still smoked as he fired again and it tore through a metal chimney stack. He was still too far out of range but he could not take a chance. He recalled his ancestor Salim Al-Kupar, able to run up pipes faster than any other thief. He could use that speed now. My, it seemed to be his time for family reminiscence. His mother would have said to him, his father nodding sternly in the background: _never ignore the present moment Sly. Or otherwise you will miss so many important things. Live in the present and appreciate what it gives you._ Right now this was rather more literal, but he got the general idea. Even if this wasn't quite the gist in which she had meant it. Philosophically speaking that was.

Sly noticed a lantern hung from a post beside the gantry. This gave him an idea; earlier he had noticed a gun emplacement just above the vaulted entrance. Beneath it was a sizeable cache of gunpowder, just what he needed to block his pursuers. But he would make sure to do it while they were clear. He mustn't kill anyone if he didn't need to; even people as brutal as this. He must assert that he was different to them in every way: not just an ordinary criminal. The ethos of his family code seemed to shine out of him. He was proud to say that he was a master thief. After all, he had never engaged in these kinds of sinister arrangements. No wonder they had continuously butted heads with so many crime syndicates and other thief clans over the centuries. That was one price of being an honourable thief – one which he more than willingly paid.

Reaching out with his cane, Sly snagged the lantern in the crook and it convulsed wildly as he ran on. He pulled his arm back, coiling it in like a spring. He had one shot at this and he must get it right. He was now about five metres away. Now! He heaved with all his might and twisted about in a full three-sixty degree motion. His feet briefly left the ground as the lantern was tossed through the air and collided with the gunpowder cache. There was a terrific explosion of sound as the barrels blew up. A great ball of flame blew the gun platform apart, sending chunks of wreckage flying into the lagoon. Then the rest of the structure keeled over and began to rain down over the entrance. It made a thundering, wet sound. The rain pounded down even harder, personifying Raleigh's outrage. The explosion rippled through the boat from end to end.

Way up high in the storm machine, even Raleigh felt it. _What the heck was Cooper doing now – his men had failed him again! This was entirely unacceptable._

Sly had just one narrow window and he had to take it. The wreckage had almost buried the entrance. The men were hollering behind him, suddenly aware that they could lose their quarry. He dived and cut through the cloud of soot and smoke. The smell of wet, burning wood met his nose. He had made it; he now stood within the entrance. A wooden ramp twisted away into the depths of the hull. It met a decking which ran across a cavernous room. The floor of the room was submerged by almost nine feet of seawater. _Gulp, he didn't know how to swim and preferred to stay further away from water. Oh well, there was always a time to confront your fears. Now might as well be it._

Torn and scattered wreckage of ships floated in the water, equipment organised by them on platforms and gantries. The ceiling seemed to stretch to an impossibly high length. Massive beams held it in place almost four stories away. The boat appeared to be even bigger than he had thought. And there were likely many more places to discover. It appeared as if he had arrived in some kind of gunboat graveyard. The equipment apparently was used to pilfer and dissect the wrecks for any remaining loot before they were rejected.

_What a vicious, selfish_ _tyrant_, thought Sly_. How could you go to such lengths for your own material wealth? What is the point if you can't deserve what you steal – can't have it honourably. I'll never entirely figure out these so called 'master criminals.' But never mind that now, _said his conscience,_ you have some more present tyrants to defeat._

Sly whipped around to ready for an assault – an assault he felt sure would come. But it did not. The thundering began to cease and then abruptly stopped completely. The remains of the gunpowder cache had just about buried the entrance. He heard screams and yells of absolute fury from behind the barricade. For now they could not get at him; for now he was safe. But he could not guarantee that the fortification would hold for long. Now was the time he should get to work. _Now I can really start on restoring my family's legacy_, thought Sly. _And just as much importantly, put an end to this devious madman. He's killed, maimed and hurt enough people to last a life time. I don't think I – we – could be ever be bad as that. When have we ever killed – never? I would never take a life, as I hope Carmelita knows. _He felt a pang of regret and sadness in his heart.

_Well, that is one more thing that I shall prove tonight. Unlike Raleigh, at least Interpol have a heart and can understand my motives somewhat. That is more valuable than he could bother to comprehend. Now he'll spend almost a lifetime behind bars for what he's done: plenty of time to contemplate my family then. He's lucky really because Carmelita will give him the fairest treatment he could possibly deserve. Not that he could ever bring himself to admit it – at least I doubt that. As much as it pains me, what must be done must be done. He cannot do any more harm. _Sly became serious and strode forwards, ignoring the frantic crashing, banging and screaming behind the barricade.

General Aqualon may catch up with him again that night, but by that time he would be ready. Besides, he had the most gorgeous fox in the world and his best friends on his side right now. He could easily beat them with love on his side. He knew that committing the kind of acts they did could never truly earn what you wanted. Why would you anyway if you could not deserve what you took? These guys were too wrapped up in their own selfish plans to be able to see that. But not all could be like that. Some of them just played the game, not truly forgetting their pain. Those were the ones who could be saved. He just couldn't give up on his family's code – what he believed, and believed to be right. Compassion and honour were the inner-most treasures; something no amount of money could buy. Only your own self could do that: by decision and trust.

"Blast these wretched obstructions aside idiots," roared General Aqualon, "Or else we risk losing Cooper before he can figure out how to sabotage Sir Raleigh's machine. Use the guns or whatever else you have to get in there. I don't care as long as he is caught and killed." He eloquently finished this with a tirade of colourful language Sly would never repeat. "He must not obtain any more pages of that book."

"Uh, why is that?" questioned a dim voice.

"Well I don't know do I?" said the General condescendingly. "Orders are orders and that was an order given to me. We carry them out and no questions asked. Maybe The Master wants them for some hare-brained scheme to diminish that stupid clan of thieves. Rub it in Cooper's face or something to show he was deluded - nothing - all along, the arrogant brat. Now do as I say!" He growled quietly.

"Okay, okay," grunted the voice, "I didn't mean anything by it." More rustling and scraping sounds were heard and then a shower of bangs. Several fragments of something were heard to echo of the steel door. One of the thugs had apparently tried the machine gun again – unsuccessfully.

"You hear me in there Cooper?" said Marius, "I know you can hear me. Now listen to me; before this night is out I will find you and make you pay. Make you pay for what you have done, and I never forget. I will find you raccoon. Do you hear me – I will find you." His voice becomes shrill as it broke through several octaves.

"I can hear you easily General," said Sly unafraid. He now knew how deluded the General had made himself by ever believing in Sir Raleigh's lies and fakeries of grandeur. All the glories of pirating and stolen gold: it was all an illusion, really just a backdrop for a heartless and cold criminal. He had manipulated the General, used him and then discarded him: just another cog in his well oiled machine. A machine which must not fail whatever the cost - it made him sick. There was no love or companion, only cold and brutal efficiency.

"What you should really know is that I am not the one who has created your pain. Nor will I be the one to pay the price. You are already and have done that yourself. Only by deceiving your own mind, telling yourself that extortion and violence can make you gain, do you suffer pain. There is no advantage in what you have gained because there is no substance to it. You just took it by violent force, without being able to deserve it at all. The real treasure of being a thief is in how you go about your work, not the objects or goals you seek. These are just tokens to remind you of your true treasure; objects to be cherished for a more symbolic, emotional value. As I have always believed and done. Otherwise what is the point? You are putting all your effort and substance into something inanimate, without feeling, leaving you with nothing. You have made yourself like a monster and that is what troubles you - that you are empty, without real purpose. If you have a conscience – I sense you do, unlike some – you will never be a true tyrant and possibly realise that someday."

"Oh shut up," said General Aqualon. "I've heard this time and time again already tonight. I'm feed up to the back teeth with you and your sappy sweet morals of goodness and love. You're a weak punk and that is all there is to it. Now true might will knock some sense into your scrawny body."

"Oh well," Sly lamented, resigned to the facts, "I tried. Your choice has been made." He flexed the muscles in his arms and stretched his legs, readying himself. _I might be slight and_ _agile_, he thought, _but I'm not scrawny or titchy. There's a bit more fight in this raccoon than you might think. _Carmelita might call him an arrogant thief. But he hoped that he could convince her that this was not all true. There was indeed more to him than met the eye. Not just the fledging master thief, but someone who could be trusted; someone who could feel and reciprocate those feelings back; someone who, at least, contained some substance. When the time was right he could show the real love he felt for her.

_Why was love so complicated?_

Several unintelligible howls came from outside as Marius barked further commands. The blockage rattled and shook but still held firm. It seemed like a mix of Malay and Indian that the General spoke. Maybe some traces of Hokkien and Cantonese in there too – even some Mandarin. He was a colourful man, not just some British guy. _Some opponent his_ _grandfather must have made for great-uncle Ernest_, Sly thought.

He had lost enough time being berated and chastised by General Aqualon. Now he really had to get going and pretty darn fast. His friend's live, as well as that of Carmelita and Interpol, may still hang in the balance. He was not about to fail them, as he had told himself many times that night. He would never give up. _Just retain the charm and composure of_ _Thaddeus Winslow Cooper III_, he told himself. _Probably the most polite and gentlemanly Cooper there has ever bee; just like my father, even though he may not have been big on_ _good English_. This was yet more family reminiscence for Sly.

He turned away resolute and stared down at the wooden ramp. The gunboat graveyard stretched away before him, contained within the ship's massive hull. Only now he caught glimpses of old planes and other engine parts suspended from the ceiling. Caught and brought down in the horror that was the Welsh Triangle; the horror that Raleigh had created. An umbrella had been put up, stopping the storm from raining on the parade. Raising his body up on his toes, Sly pattered in his trademark fashion down the ramp. He was still and made barely any sound. The thieving instincts he had been born with now began to kick in.

He realised that he still held the sword in his right hand. He would not need it any more from now on. Appropriately he walked by a second suit of armour, squat and low like a frog, sliding the sword into its grip. He then trod away respectfully, twirling only his cane in his hands. It had been useful to him but he was not overly fond of such weapons. There was never need for that kind of violence unless, possibly, a life was threatened. He preferred using his own strength, fists and skill. Or as Carmelita did, shock them but don't actually harm.

He descended to the floor of the room and trotted along the deck delicately. The wooden slats creaked and wobbled on the water but held firm. Ahead he could see more wreckage strewn in a pool about eight feet deep. Half the hull of a ship peaked out of the water beyond. But only a midget compared to the leviathan that contained it. Various more scaffolds and gantries were built up around these. The whole place was like some kind of harbour, where ships and vessels were delicately dissected piece by piece.

At the further most reaches of the chamber were more portals into others spaces of the ship. It seemed to continue like some incredible labyrinth or maze. An enormous beast designed for one purpose: to do its creator's bidding and do it well.

Sly passed by the wreckage of a metallic vessel that was submerged up to the deck. Twisted guns and battery hung off the contorted construction. Painted on the side in water faded, black-painted letters was the title HMS Belfast. Sly frowned for a moment and then moved on. The name didn't mean much to him but it seemed to ring a bell. Something to do with antiquities or art treasures being transferred from the British museum perhaps?

These suspicions were confirmed when he noticed a fair stack of loot piled by the ship. Obviously Raleigh's men had worked day and night to get all they could out of this one. A couple of chests spilling with coins and jewellery, a few sculptures and busts of half-naked deities and some slightly water damaged paintings. With Bentley's extensive knowledge Sly even recognised a Picasso, Van Gogh or Rembrandt among them. _Forging and stealing fine art – how low could you get? _But there was one piece that stood out a little more from the rest of them. However it had wound up here – where and with who it would wind up.

It was a somewhat ugly sculpture of a whale wrapped in a toga. It sat atop a Grecian column, sculpted in the Corinthian or Ionian style. It had a certain charm to it but there was definitely something somewhat repugnant about its face. Sly didn't know why he had been drawn to this one in particular: he just seemed curious. Script sculpted into the column upon which it sat entitled the statue as _The Venus de Whalo_. For whatever reason Sly couldn't guess he pocketed this information as he grinned at the statue and moved on. Maybe it was an artwork of some brilliantly insane artist like Botticelli or something. Sly was hardly the art historian, even though he spent times 'liberating' it from certain questionable art collectors. Although he hardly gave it a second thought, little could Sly know that he would see the statue again: after almost a year since now. It was just one little perk in being a master thief.

Suddenly, way across the room, Sly spied a hunk of metal. It was another vault, raised high upon a series of steel platforms, concealed in the heart of Raleigh's lair. The platforms were stacked in a pile, reaching to gantries strung from the ceiling. Sly's curious eyes followed it and noted that they snaked away and out of the room into more passage ways. They were going up and he would need to go that way when it was time to finish this. A whole menagerie of wrecked planes was strung around this structure. His ears pricking up, Sly heard a faintly droning hum and crackle. Like electricity moving through water. Whatever was going on down here it was a little more than sinister. But he could stop it.

"Hot dog," said Sly, "More pages within my reach. That's a bit of a morale booster." He grinned cheerfully and started to make tracks for the vault. So fixed was he on it that he failed to notice a giant walrus clad in blue overalls, tennis sneakers and a red cap lunge at him. His shaved scalp gleamed in the artificial light as he hit Sly and knocked him to the ground. Sly exhaled a large gasp of air as his body was squashed. All he could see momentarily was navy blue denim as his face was pressed into the walrus's chest. His left arm was pinned to the ground, unable to raise the cane. His backpack burst open and the Binoc-u-com clattered out. It buzzed and then sparked to life, images appearing in its lenses.

"Got you now thief," hooted the walrus, "How's that for an esteem deflator?"

"I'll admit you got me," Sly said grudgingly, "But my esteem is hardly hurt." He embellished somewhat because he did feel rather embarrassed. Sometimes you had to sacrifice your dignity for more important things however. "I'm sure I'll get over it and then we can be friends." He allowed himself a little joke.

"Yeah, yeah," said the walrus, "I mean no! I have my orders to bring you to Raleigh." He continued to sit on Sly, squeezing the breath from his chest. He had done this many times before: Sly would get out of this as he always did. He was not called a master thief for nothing after all.

"What the heck is going on?" screamed the Binoc-u-com on the floor. Sly scrabbled for it but could not reach it. "It's been a while Sly – are you alright?" Bentley's voice sounded very worried. Sly gasped but could not pick it up. He thought he heard the twang of a Spanish accent in the background, whispering in Bentley's ear possibly. Could that be Carmelita? His vision was covered by fluttering hearts at the image of her face, which was promptly squashed out of him by the walrus. Finally he managed a stretched moan of a sentence.

"Kind of okay Bentley," rasped Sly, "Just under a bit of a jam right now." That was the understatement of the century. He was being actively flattened.

"Holy guacamole," said the device in Bentley's voice, "I'm so happy you're alright. Murray and I are on the way as we speak: all for one and one for all. Just try and stay alive."

"Will do," said Sly through his nose.

"Just hold on Sly," said Bentley, "I know you can do it. You are a Cooper. And you are our friend. We are all behind you: you have more than the skill to get out of there; we all believe in you. Just never give up and the game is never lost."

There was a cry of surprise as someone apparently snatched the device from Bentley. A new, very familiar voice spoke to him. "Do you hear me Cooper?" said Carmelita. "Don't give up like Bentley said. As much as I find it hard to admit, you're..." She trailed off. "An alright guy. And if you let yourself get hurt I won't be happy. You had better get back here in one piece. I'm counting on it." Then she attempted to gloss over this moment of tenderness with a second thought.

"We have a few things to settle Sly and I need you to settle them; just a little discussion of feelings between us." She trailed off again. "Just get out of there without your tail singed." She struggled once more with her surfacing emotions. "Please don't make this any more difficult than it has to be Sly. I'll, I'll see you soon ringtail." She sniffed and hung up. Sly felt she had wanted to put more into that saying but couldn't. She was having enough trouble grappling with her feelings and the growing tension between them.

"I'll be seeing you Carmelita," groaned Sly, "I really hope so." The walrus bounced on his stomach, crushing most of his breath. There was a click as Bentley came back on line.  
"Keep at it Sly, keep at it," he said encouragingly, "We are all behind you. Just don't forget who you are and the Cooper code of honour. You cannot be ever truly defeated while you have conviction in that. As we would in your place, fight for what is right Sly."

Sly smiled at the loyalty and compassion of his friends: he would do just that.  
**  
The Louvre, Paris, France: 1:03 AM.**

"Oh, they messed up the front page," whined Hermione Jane Neyla, glancing at the article. In her hands she clutched an advance copy of that morning's gazette. Her article was plastered all over the front page of the newspaper. The title read: _Notorious Thief Sly Cooper still on the Run. _Below was a large black and white image of Sly's grinning face, complete with winning teeth and all. The text surrounded this image and continued over the next two pages. Her own name was printed in bold beneath the title. She was quite proud of her work in actuality; but she wished that her picture could have appeared with it. "If I'm going to be following this case then I need the proper look. What's the use of writing an article if I do not receive the correct recognition?"

She didn't really mind though – as a reporter she always fussed over everything. At least her article had become front page news anyway. That was one way to impress Barkley. She was as good a journalist as she thought. She glanced at her silver Rolex chronometer: an expensive gift – a very expensive gift - from her father when she had gone off to university at Oxford. It read 1:04. Barkley was almost two minutes late. The watch was just about the only gift her father had ever been able to afford. It had cost a packet but he thought that his daughter deserved high status. She had proved deceptively, almost supernaturally brilliant in school. Both her parents were sure she had great potential. She scowled at the gazette and shoved it into a pocket. Her next story would be far grander in profile.

She stared impatiently up at the sky. Pacing back and forth the crystalline structure of a glass pyramid went in and out of focus. La Louvre was really a beautiful building, even more so on nights like this. She had arranged a rendezvous with Barkley and Captain Higgins after their somewhat exciting negotiations. Donald had returned to the office to oversee the next run for the evening gazette. If they had managed to procure the person she hoped, then she would have a really juicy tale for her readers. Following this article it would make even more headline news. The heat of ambition burned within her. She might not have felt the same way if she could have foretold where this ambition would end her up. What she would become.

She was anxious and curious to further delve into this Cooper case. She couldn't quite explain why: maybe she just craved excitement after her deprived child hood. Admittedly what she had told Barkley had been sugar coated a little. In fact it was almost a falsehood, a lie. She was not British but Indian by birth. She came from rural British India and had been taught to speak in their accent by her mother. _A girl must learn to speak properly if she is to_ _get into a British university,_ she had said. Thanks to her mother she was now where she was – relatively successful and wealthy. Unfortunately her accent had evolved to become a rather more southern Londoner cockney accent than she hoped. She couldn't deny that she wanted more. As a child she had always wanted to aim high and go places.

Swishing her tail agitatedly, yanking the nylon-gray coat over her bodice, Neyla stared up into the sky once more. She had arranged this deliberately and quietly so that no one would notice. She did not want to catch the eye of the public just yet. She was anxious to get started on the case before anyone found out she was involved. There was something about Cooper that intrigued her, though she couldn't say what. She jerked reflexively as she heard a cat screech in the distance and a car horn blare. The hand clutching the whip at her waist relaxed. She recoiled and smoothed the coat down again, attempting to streamline her elegant bodice. If she was to have fame, fortune and recognition, she had to look the part.

She began to twiddle her thumbs, irritated now at Barkley's delay. She desperately needed to speak with this person. She had many questions she wanted to ask. So many questions about Cooper, especially about the young Sly Cooper: for that again inexplicable reason she hungered for that knowledge. Something drew her to it. Hundreds of miles away beat the living hatred of The Master, aware of her desire. He sensed what was growing within her and now began to draw her into his web. Slowly but surely he had entranced her mind and drew her closer. Although she was oblivious, she felt something growing within her. Something she could not quite explain, beyond any normal feeling or emotion. It was like some great power had just awoken within her heart. But not until much later would she realise what it meant for her. What she could become and let corrupt her.

Absorbed in her musings, Neyla watched the faint black speck in the starry sky. It hummed like a bee, hovering over the radiant city. This was the helicopter which Barkley had arranged to drop her off ten minutes ago. He should have followed almost right behind her. Now where was he? Feeling a little paranoid Neyla examined her Rolex intently. The face displayed: 1:11. She gesticulated silently in rapid French – she had picked this up at school. Barely seven minutes had gone by. _Oh nuts_, she thought, _there goes my_ _career._

But her head snapped up as she caught the sound of blades chopping through air. A torrent of cool wind began to fill the forecourt of La Louvre as a jet-black chopper, its lights blaring, descended onto the smooth granite stones. She didn't know what had made her decide on this meeting place, but it seemed appropriate. She loved Paris by night. She had visited the museum several times to see the artworks inside. It just seemed appropriate to the case. Appropriate for Sly Cooper anyway. She stood straight, watching the chopper, anxious thoughts of her imminent journey chasing around in her head. She would have to cope with Inspector Fox however; _oh drat_, thought Neyla, _another girl to steal my thunder_.

She shielded her face with her arms as the helicopter came down soundly on the granite forecourt. The lights dimmed and a large metal door slide open in the chopper's side.

Barkley stepped out, wrapped in a trench coat and Al Capone style hat. He glanced from side to side and then hurried over to her. Bronwyn Higgins stepped out of the chopper after him, assisting an elderly lady wrapped in a woollen shawl. _Ah, excellent_, thought Neyla, _they managed to procure her even at this late hour. Not the end of my career after all._

Barkley gestured to the pilot and he nodded, silencing the helicopter's engine. Bronwyn hobbled over, assisting the elderly lady. She actually wasn't as old as Neyla had guessed but she clutched a polished pinewood walking stick. She only looked about sixty. But then that was likely what came of running an orphanage full of kids like Sly Cooper, Bentley and Murray. They had even gotten away with her jar of cookies.

Neyla fixed one eye on Barkley sternly. He withered a little under her pretty face. She deliberately shoved the Rolex under his nose and waved it to show him the time. It now read 1:15. Beginning to enjoy herself, Neyla wagged an admonishing finger at Barkley. He looked a little sheepish but didn't look away. Bronwyn smiled weakly, before the elderly lady yanked her by the ear down to her mouth. She was only about five-foot five.

"Where were you Barkley?" said Neyla. She tapped the Rolex. "You are almost twenty minutes late. Anything could have happened and I would not have known."

"Sorry about that Hermione," muttered Barkley, "There were some delicate moments trying to persuade our elderly companion to come. I had to go to the door with Bronwyn and very politely explain the situation, but she was not very impressed. However she agreed knowing that her name will appear in the papers. She was also quite happy to dish the dirt on you-know-who."

"Darn right I am," rasped the woman into Bronwyn's ear, 'I'm sixty-three and I'm not going to waste a second. I'm more than willing to help you young'uns out. That little terror and his friends had a real cheek, make no mistake. If it helps you bring this kid back behind bars then I'm happy to do it. Teach that little brute a lesson – he would have had a hundred strokes with the whip if I got my way, along with that porky hippo and wimpy tortoise too."

"Ah turtle," corrected Bronwyn carefully.

"Tortoise, turtle, whatever," said the woman, "What's the difference to me anyway, as long as he gets punished. If only I had gotten stuck into him he would have been sorry. That little brain of a tortoise planned the taking of my cookies! Teach them a lesson, err!" She pulled her head into her shawl, leaning heavily on her stick, and began grumbling to herself. She neglected to mention that she had confiscated a good deal of the children's cookies for her jar; hence why she had been an object of loathing for the juvenile Cooper Gang.

"As you can see," said Bronwyn tactfully, "She feels a little delicate after all these years." She made a face, implying that she thought this to be over-inflated nonsense. "We have to treat her nicely and respectfully or she won't give us the information."

"That's right," said the woman, releasing Bronwyn's now red ear. "You aren't getting anything out of me unless I get the proper treatment. People need to earn my respect, not that those little thieves ever did." She leaned even further on her stick. "I think I would like a cup of nice warm Darjeeling. Then maybe I'll tell you something. Or maybe I will when I feel like it tomorrow." She stared seriously at them all, daring them to contradict her.

Bronwyn looked back at Neyla, out of the woman's sight, and rolled her eyes.

"Now see here madam," interject Barkley, "Please be reasonable. I can assure you that we can provide the utmost treatment for your needs."

"Utmost treatment my foot," said the woman rudely, "No one will be reasoning with me unless I get my tea! Then we can talk." She glared stubbornly at Barkley. He hurried back to the helicopter to procure some tea. He had bought some along, anticipating this action. The woman followed him with her eyes and back again as he returned with the steaming mug. She snatched it from his grasp and drank deeply.

"You're welcome," he whispered under his breath, looking annoyed at her abrupt rudeness. She was at least unreasonable and rather impolite. They had to be patient though or she would stay shut up like a clam.

"You bet I'm welcome," she growled, "And this is not Darjeeling but Oolong. I'll excuse you now but get it right next time." Barkley scoffed and Bronwyn couldn't resist scowling in disdain. She did not much like their guest.

_She's a real old grouch_, thought Neyla. She looked at the Rolex, which read 1:21._ Oh well, better get this thing stared or we'll be here all night. This woman seems very stubborn._ She decided to start politely and in a diplomatic fashion. She had charmed information out of more than a few people. She just had that knack for doing it.

"You are Miss Agatha Puffin?" she said soothingly. The woman gave her a look, those beady eyes scanning Neyla, from over the rim of the mug.

"Of course I am," she spat, frustrated, "Who else would I be girly?" She took another sip of Oolong and then gagged dramatically. "You made this tea with only one teaspoon of milk." She roared the statement like it was a federal offence. Miss Puffin waved the cup under Bronwyn's nose. "I like two teaspoons of milk and one sugar in my tea. Clean up your act." She patted the bun on her head and shoved her spectacles onto her beaky nose.

Barkley was hardly a young man, being somewhere in his fifties, but he looked like his hair was greying every minute. "Please Miss Puffin," he pleaded, "I was under the impression that Oolong was best served without milk. Anyway, if you co-operate, I'm sure we can bring you back home nice and comfortably with a police escort. Interpol will ensure you get a good cup of Darjeeling there I should think." He sighed.

"My maid Francois will ensure that," burst Agatha Puffin, making it out to be a tremendous scandal. "I don't need your officers to make me tea. I'll call a taxi when I like and then be off home to be tucked up in bed with a cup of tea and F. Scott Fitzgerald's _The Great Gatsby._" She pulled at her rumpled mauve linen cardigan. "A fine book that is, not that I think Cooper ever will read it." In fact, due to Bentley's insistence, both he and Sly had read the book. Bentley appreciated great literature.

"Pull the other one," groaned Bronwyn, free of Miss Puffin's pincer-like grip. She said it very quietly however. She did not want her ear twisted for the twelfth time.

"Well then Miss Puffin," said Neyla calmly, "I have a few questions for you, if you please. I need some information on Sly Cooper and his friends for my article. Would you give me a quick interview?" She gestured, knowing full well of the old bird's cranky temper, to a bench that stood beside a silver fountain, playing in the moonlight.

Miss Puffin sat down heavily, clutching her stick. "Well missy, if you insist. But no trifling with me or I shall lose my temper. Back at Happy Camper orphanage was a good enough doing for me." She rocked back and forth. "Get on with it then."

"Thank you," said Neyla through gritted teeth. "Do you know anything about these people?" She pulled a list from her pocket and began to read. "Sir Nigel Charles, inventor of the Spear-Head. Brendan Stringer, mastermind of The Vortex criminal syndicate and old friend now arch-rival of Sir Nigel. He later attempted to steal Sir Nigel's invention." She allowed Miss Puffin to consider this information, herself already knowing that Bentley was connected to both men.

"Heck, with all the legal documents I have to handle," she said, "So many names pass under my eyes that I can hardly remember." She rubbed her temple with a feathered finger. "However I do recall Sir Nigel. Although he was never really accounted for, left on my steps in a basket for goodness' sake, I believe he was Bentley's father. Ran off to be brilliant with his friend no doubt with little time for his snot-nosed son. As for his mother, who knows? Not sure I can really blame him with a brat like that."

"And Stringer" Neyla hinted – tentatively.

"Never heard of him; until now I didn't even know Sir Nigel had a friend. That would be right that he double-crossed him. A lot of these kids come from bad backgrounds, a rotten egg from the beginning. I don't want to know what they're doing running around out there, as long as you people can bring them in. I wasn't that interested in looking into all this stuff."

Neyla tensed a little, for she had hoped for something a little more substantial. "Well then, can you tell me anything about Murray? Even at Interpol we are somewhat short of reliable and legitimate information."

"Always trying to get into the kitchen that one was. An absolutely fathomless appetite and a good deal of feeding come meal times: a pain in the neck when he wanted to be. Nearly ate me out of house and home some of the time. You know the kind I suspect. Always chewing the crayons and not too bright."

"But what of his background?" both Barkley and Bronwyn interrupted – annoyed.

"Absolutely nothing again," said Agatha Puffin. "Not a speck of ink on any document. He just turns up on my doorstep with one suitcase and some beat-up old crud heap of a van. Said his parents left it to him; apparently they were famous race drivers or something. Killed in a targeted assassination or something, I didn't have a whole lot of sympathy. They were likely hooligans concerned with just making money and making it big on the track."

She ejected the words with obvious contempt, with little to no pity for Murray. Clearly she was very single-sided about the children under her care. The name 'Happy Camper' suddenly seemed rather ironic to Neyla.

"I don't know about all of that," said Neyla carefully, "But at least you have helped confirm some uncertainties. Why then, if you were not fond of the children did you take them in?" She cocked an eyebrow, wondering what answer she would get to this.

"Well they are just kids," Miss Puffin grudgingly admitted, "As much as they drive me up the wall and drive the janitor Jon crazy, I can't reject them. They have no homes after all: though maybe that Cooper Gang was a mistake. Probably just as home on the streets as in any other place. Sent them to school and they seemed to do well. The teachers said they were kind and polite, always caring for other students and never bullied. Even talented – brilliant some said - for all of them learnt to speak English and French fluently. That Bentley even learned to fence – best left-hander they ever had; a rather bizarre bunch. Personally I thought it was all over-heated puffery."

Neyla wrenched back the collar of her Chanel jacket, again slipping on her shoulder. "Thank you for that information," she said, "Can you tell me anything of Cooper in detail?"  
"Oh him," said Miss Puffin. She waved a hand dismissively. "Have rather a bit on that raccoon I do." She took another gulp of Oolong, its scent filling the air. "Arrives on my doorstep just five years and three months old; again with one suitcase and that strange cane he always would carry wherever he went. Apparently that too was a family heirloom, belonging to his father or something. Arrived about two months after Murray and a good four years after Bentley - he came to me when he was just eleven months."

Neyla nodded and attempted an encouraging smile. It turned out more like a grimace. She felt like this woman should be treated as a bomb: she might go off at any moment. Bronwyn and Barkley leaned in closer, curious now at these words.

"Poor little blighter, severely shaken by the sudden and violent death of his father. Killed by rival criminals who invaded their farm in northern France; I believe Cooper was raised for all of his childhood there. He stayed with me, along with his friends, for a long time. No person ever came in to adopt them, though I'm not sure why." She paused to swallow and stared into the fountain. A cat mewed again in the distance.

"At eighteen they all moved out. I think that turtle went to some university and earned a degree. Even floated his own company, for he was an electronics genius and had a head for business. He was the most intelligent in the group. That hippo was always thick-headed and Sly was cheeky, charming to the girls and somewhat arrogant. They bought some shares, made some accounts, and then off they went; ready to tackle the wide world. Who knew that they would become the most famous gang of thieves in the world? I never saw them again after that – it's been almost three years."

"Very interesting," Neyla mused, now intrigued.

"I'll say it's interesting," squawked Miss Puffin, "I could never understand why everyone seemed to like them so much. Cooper was definitely a hot item amongst the girls. Bentley was too geeky to attract any female, save ones like him. As for Murray, he seemed just interested in food and food and more food. Apart from that he would like to test his strength by challenging the other kids in the cafeteria at meal times. Never hurt anyone though – it was just playing at fighting; bit of a meathead in that respect I thought."

"Ah ha, indeed," Neyla prompted with satisfaction. This was more like whet she had been hoping for. Now she had just enough juicy tit-bits for her readers. "Any other words you might have for me?" She leaned forward, unable to readily conceal her baited breath and anticipation.

"Oh yes," she said dismissively, "I have an absolute payload of memories locked up in my steel trap of a brain." She looked up to the stars and sighed, grunting with apparent satisfaction at having roped Neyla into her net.

"From the moment Sly, Bentley and Murray met each other they became inseparable. My staff hardly ever claimed seeing them apart. I think it was their loneliness and shared tragic background that bonded them. But still, look what that did in the end for the little runts, as thick as thieves they became."

She seemed to ignore the fact that the trio had never been foul-mouthed, actually violent or rude while they had been in the orphanage. Neither did she cover the fact that they had never been responsible for any deaths or major crimes since those days. Not like the real criminal masterminds. If any of them had thought of this at the time, they might have started to uncover the true Cooper Gang. That they had turned their past into reason to do good, never letting ambition get in the way of what was truly important. Not for a reason to wallow in pain and hurt, driven to deeds that could only cause more pain.

They had never been greedy at the orphanage, either sharing amongst them, or doing things for the benefit of their disadvantaged peers. Sly might have been a rogue, as were his friends, but he had been heroic as well because he never gave up. His past had not dragged him down, Sly using it to motivate him and his friends to value compassion above all else when the time demanded it. Miss Puffin's one-sided anger prevented her from seeing this.

"That threesome was indeed a band of firm, loving and loyal friends. They always looked out for each other, never leaving either behind. I suppose this was what motivated them to spite me. They saw me as a tyrannous dictator or some bloated notion, all because I had to be firm on them for their own benefit. And looked how they turned out." She neglected, again, to mention that she had given them the coldest bedroom, the hardest mattresses and the itchiest sheets she could find. All because she hated what they came from: dirty thieving families, good-for-nothing money-obsessed scoundrels or parents who were too consumed in themselves to care for a child. Why should this make the child themself any better she thought?

Growing up in her time she knew it was a hard world – you had to be tough. If only she had known the real reasons, the real reasons why the friends had ended up together. Just like their parents had before them. All because they fought for and protected something valuable, something they loved: their child and their family. All three had been determined to make the sacrifices of their parents meaningful. Make them proud while never forgetting what was important and losing their true nature. That would have been what made them the criminals she now though they were.

Miss Puffin had isolated herself from her family at an early age; convinced her mother was holding her back. And then where had she ended up? She was too short-sighted to see all of this. If only she could have understood, she might have realised the waste she had made of her youth. But Sly had not wasted it. He had seized what he loved – his family tradition – and built from his past to achieve this goal, fulfil his potential - something which all three of them were still doing. Just as Carmelita and even Higgins were doing alongside them. They had had conviction and belief, more important than ambition. If you didn't believe in it then it was hollow, without meaning.

But they had had hope, always believing there was something more to get out of life. This made them far removed from any ordinary criminal. They knew when to put others before themselves, when ambition could destroy you. That the past and what this meant to you was something to be built on, not forgotten or continuously dwelled upon. You were only as good as the decisions you made and ultimately no one could change that. You could decide on whom you were and that there would be consequences.

In the end you just had to have the courage to face the world and all its traumas. Face it to realise that your true person was always possible, but that you had to know when the time was right to make other decisions. Never let others crush you because then you had truly been defeated, not become a villain by resisting. Remember that there was always hope if you would persist in finding it, and that courage was needed to move forward. There was always hope in the fact that you never backed down, potential in hope. It took great thieves to build the Cooper legacy. But it had only taken one Cooper to truly believe that being a thief was something more.

This was embodied in Sly and now his friends. They were aspiring to something they believed, something they believed that was great because it did not compromise a moral compass. Ultimately they fought towards the same goal: the destruction of the real villains when it was most needed. They could fight for what they believed in, but were always there when they were really needed. They never ran out when the time demanded it and others had to have their help the most. They were not cowards but friends who could be trusted when time demanded it.

One just had to look past the exterior and see that. See that they could be relied upon the most because of what they believed in, because acting otherwise would compromise any value in that. It was hard but someone who could truly value care and kindness would be able to see that. When they knew the time was right to lay aside their differences and protect their common goal. This was the real treasure that criminals could not see or understand: because they never allowed themselves true friends, never accepting the need to trust, making them who they were. Sly and his friends had been able to put trust in many things and many people. Neither could people who were bitter or jealous entirely appreciate this idea, until they were ready to relinquish those feelings.

This had been the fate of Miss Puffin. Her bitterness has blinded her from seeing the most unique and compassionate, caring band of thieves pass right under her nose. Although she denied it, some of the greatest potential she had ever faced – often during a lecture on stealing her cookies – had slipped through her fingers. Refusing to back down in the face of adversity, like Carmelita alongside them. Now all that was lost to her, all of them proving who they could truly be and could become in the wide world.

Neyla only stared at the old bird, almost able to guess her thoughts. She could almost tell what she was thinking as it coursed through her brain. And for some reason this made her jealous. She was in awe of Sly, she saw that now. But there was something else as well. She tried to resist the feeling but could not. She found herself hating him. Because he had what she could never have. She had always wanted to be the greatest, had always aimed high because of where she had come from. Like Cooper from his past. And now she felt like she wanted to destroy him. Because, like the thief he was, he had stolen away her future.

Her ambition began to creep up on her, fuelled by the burning fury of The Master. She found herself loosing the ability to make sound decisions. She had to eradicate Cooper and she would. Because what he did, and all he stood for, took away all she hoped to be. What he stood for denied her the future she fought for. With this decision she failed to realise that, unlike Sly, who had always known it, your decision and choices were what made you who you really were. It was you and you alone – nobody could change that. Ultimately her nature was only affected by her own actions. She was already corroding the goodness within her, tempted by the idea of greed and power – jealousy.

And now she herself had started her own path of destruction, all because she hated the idea of Cooper, was jealous of him. She felt vengeful against him because he had now destroyed her vision, fighting for an idea that could not possibly exist. Consumed by her fury and hatred, she vowed to show him what the truth was. Her corruption had only just begun, for The Master could even now sense the thoughts inside her awakened, drawing her in and fuelling it.

He was no longer just a mortal being: time had cleared that away thousands of years ago. He was but an idea, the very notion itself of hatred and jealousy embodied. Tied to a single path of pain and destruction, because of one chose he had made so long ago. A choice Neyla had just made, all because of one idea. The very idea of Sly bothered her and she wanted to crush it; destroy it. What he represented could not exist – he was deluded in a vision built by his family.

She was right in one way: any ordinary sneak thief was not extraordinary or brilliant. But she was unable to see what the Cooper Clan had created. They had taken that idea and turned it into something extraordinary. The goal they hoped, had hoped to achieve was not wealth, but fulfilment in skill and knowledge. Working towards a goal to protect what could be good in the world. This is what they believed in and had conviction with. A Cooper was a master thief, something very different to any criminal. They worked towards the destruction of the true criminals, because they could at once comprehend but never be like them.

A Cooper never killed, caused injury or pain: these were true deeds of maliciousness. They saw the potential for what they loved doing, but never embraced the side of selfishness and deceit. A Cooper knew when the time was right to make the choice one should, coming before all else. This was what made them unique. Without that they would have indeed been little more than a family of ordinary thieves. But they were not so, because they believed in trust and friendship. Something Neyla had rarely been able to say she had. This was what set them apart: what The Master – now Neyla too – could not understand. Going to extremes could never make you truly great: isolating yourself might give you power.

But ultimately the desire would only feed on you and destroy because of an empty space, an empty space where love was absent or had once been. What was truly great was to realise you had weaknesses: to know you could not be perfect. There would always be someone against you. This had been at the centre of the founding of the Cooper Clan. But they had never backed down, standing up against all odds.

Yes, being a thief could never make them perfect. But it could make them extraordinary. Unique because they took from the idea what was true potential and expanded upon it; able to contribute something new to the world, unlike jealous criminals who only ate away at it fuelled by bitterness and contempt. And that was the key: they contributed something to the world but never truly took from it. That was the central Cooper ideal, to make your talent an addition to the world rather than squandering it on taking.

Otherwise it was hardly talent, because it was wasted. Used for the wrong purposes. Fulfil what could be a worthy belief. It would be a hard path, but something more valuable than gold would come of it. Fulfilment – fulfilment in the idea that you could always be great, if you fought for and believed in your ambition. But never forgetting what was really important, who you were. No one else could change that: your true nature. It was the ultimate actions and choice that defined your true nature. A Cooper had always turned up when they were really needed, at a time when they had been needed the most. Fighting to protect rather than ultimately cause destruction. A real criminal could only cause destruction, whether emotional or physical.

In the end the Cooper had endeavoured to protect, fight for a reason instead of an ideal, for they had something to fight for. They had courage to fight for it. No matter whom you were, if you could make the right choice close to your heart. Then you could never truly be a villain. They remembered that. Something their opponents over the centuries had never been able to comprehend. The Cooper lineage had been scorned by master criminals because of it. In the end they had lived on, never allowing their idea to be corroded. All their opponents had been a result of this.

A Cooper always embraced what was close to their heart. They would fight all that said this could not exist: all criminals, for it could if only it was believed in. As Neyla failed to comprehend, blinded by her jealousy, a Cooper could never be a true villain. Never forget to love. This was not a trait of a villain. Now she was becoming the very think they fought against: and one day it would bring her down. The day she fought against Sly Cooper as an enemy, the day he showed her the real truth. Forgetting what it was to love became a true crime, something that could not be taken back - until you showed remorse. But she would only realise this briefly, before becoming once again consumed, when she realised the consequences of what she had done. The true crime that she could never take back: causing emotional pain through physical hurt. But this would only come when she came to the climax of her now seething ambition: the destruction of Sly Cooper, his friends and all they stood for.

Neyla shook her head and brought herself back to the present. Miss Puffin was staring quizzically at her, unsure of why she had become dazed. Bronwyn and Barkley eyed her too, politely curious at her brief absence to the world. They could all surmise that she had been deep in thought. But Neyla had only one idea fixed in mind: use her power in the media to bring down Sly Cooper. Undermine all he stood for and turn society against him and his friends. Then she would have her victory; as The Master thoughts he could. Take away what he believed in before destroying him. Then she would have achieved his true destruction.

The fiery hatred and jealousy inside her fuelled her, making her pursue him until the end she knew must come for one of them. She would show the world that Sly Cooper was nothing. But in doing this she had just about sealed her own fate. Her true nature had become nothing, consumed only by the idea of ambition and corruption – jealousy and hatred. Most of all she was envious now: characterised by pride, greed, hate and envy. Something which had never come of the raccoon and never would.

"Hey you," exclaimed Miss Puffin, snapping her fingers under Neyla's nose. "I have something else that might interest you girly. I think I have exhausted my in-depth knowledge on Cooper and his comrades, but this might be worth a look." She pulled a lace handkerchief from her breast pocket and held it up to Neyla. At first she could not see what it was. Her vision blurred but then it focused. Something metallic, yet silver and delicate lay swaddled in the material. The moonlight glinted off its surface strangely.

_ The old bag_, she thought. _I bet she is just trying to get one over me. Still I might as well look at what she is going on about. Maybe it will be interesting._ That was when she heard it. A strange and steely voice, faint as a whisper yet carried on the wind. It was at once chillingly but strangely welcoming to Neyla. It seemed to emanate from the object in the old woman's hand. The voice seemed to speak to her now, though she could make out no words. It was cold and without emotion – almost like the idea of hate blossoming in her mind. At last giving in to curiosity, Neyla peeked into the folds of the lace-trimmed handkerchief.  
_  
_"What is it?" she asked, bewildered by the object presented to her.

"Just some oddity left behind by Cooper," stated Miss Puffin blandly. "I have no idea what it was; maybe just a souvenir or something. I have no interest in it but you may find it useful. Frankly I just want to make sure that now Cooper is out of my orphanage; all memories of his posse go too. I do not need the other children getting any ideas." She growled quietly, thinking of all the one-sided statements she would like to say of the raccoon.

Neyla could see the object clearly now. It was a metallic-silver feather. The filaments crafted out of the finest metal she had ever seen. There was something unnatural, almost eternal about it. She had never seen any metal like it before. It was a symbol of Sly's past: a foul deed committed by a true villain, because of his jealousy. Something about the object drew her to it, compelled her to pick it up. She allowed her instincts to take her where they would and gently scooped it up. Instantly, like a bolt of lightning, a searing pain seemed to break out in her head. She dropped to the ground – fell to her knees. She was unable to relinquish the object. The three around her, especially Bronwyn and Barkley, gave yells of shock and rushed to her side. She barely felt their touch.

_ Hear me now Neyla, for I know your pain_, said the voice inside her mind. The object – the feather – was speaking to her through her mind! The voice of The Master...

_Hear me and listen to me. I know your pain, I see into your mind. You are vulnerable and open, susceptible to the failures of Cooper. But you can be great. I know your inner most desires, your inner most fears. Come and join me, join me in my endeavour. Destroy Cooper; reveal that he is nothing – nothing! The Cooper Clan was created by handing down their wretched book from one to another: by choice of one worthy successor to the next. This is weakness and together we shall prove it. Allow your true self to come out and prove it. You know I am right. You cannot deny your darkest feelings, inner most thoughts._

The Cooper Clan has had its secrets passed down to any worthy successor, whether or not they were related by blood - by choice of a previous successor. If a Cooper could choose them to be worthy, then they were great enough to write their secrets into their stupid book. As of yet the Cooper Clan has never embraced anyone outside their bloodline. But with the end of Sly Cooper that will never come about, for he would have to make that choice. But together we will destroy them. Hear me and believe me, know what I tell you is truth – you know it, have felt it to be true. Do not deny it, for it is your destiny.

Hear my voice now, for the destruction of Cooper is to be your path; not only his path, but yours; ensuring his end. Do not run from it, no matter what feelings you have. You know this must be done. Help me bring an end to the last of a deluded legacy, a legend that was worth nothing. With their book I have claimed their symbol of greatness: the only reason they had claim to greatness. They could never have become what they were without it - Sly will never become a true Cooper. The time is now – you must act. You must not delay, act now. Walk willingly into the arms of destiny. It is not a burden but a purpose you shall undertake. It is your purpose. It is your destiny, destiny – destiny! The only true master thief shall be...

The voice echoed in her head, refusing to fade, trailing off. Neyla had not heard the last word; what she was sure had been a name. _Who had been the mysterious entity?_ She heard herself scream to the night in anguish. The threesome all stepped back, shocked by her outcry of feeling. Her hand shook and the feather dropped from her grasp. The voice disappeared with the night. She was left with nothing, nothing but the vision of the stars above her. Tears just seemed to escape her eyes, flowing freely down her cheeks. She sniffed them back, scornful of remorse, as Barkley approached her looking concerned.

"Are you all right?" said Barkley, looking shocked and distraught. He touched her shoulder lightly. "You were frozen just now, eyes glazed, clutching that – that thing." He snatched a suspicious glance at the object on the ground. It lay there innocently, apparently doing nothing at all. The light reflected off of it in laser-sharp rays.

Neyla tried to reply, but then a feeling took over her. Very briefly it did but she couldn't explain it. It just surged through her body and then it was gone. Her eyes felt like they burned with insurmountable fury – anger – hatred – jealousy.

"Get your hand off me old man," she screamed in an inhuman, high-pitched voice. Nothing like her voice at all – it was steely and cold, without any human love or kindness. Her body convulsed and then she dropped to her hands. She shuddered and then pushed herself up again. Miss Puffin appeared visibly disturbed by the scene, almost disgusted by the raving girl before her. The presence within her was gone again, but it seemed to dwell right at the back of her mind. Waiting, waiting...

"I'm very sorry," she stuttered, "I don't know what just came over me. I just felt, something. Please don't take it the wrong way." She saw Barkley nod slowly; giving her a conciliatory smile to show it was okay.

"That's alright," he whispered, "That's all right. You've had a long night." He recoiled somewhat, withdrawing his hand, but looked genuinely sympathetic. "That object – when you touched it something seemed to come over you."

"Yes," said Neyla, a little shaken, "But whatever the feeling was, it's gone now. I'm terribly sorry if I offended you. I think I've had a lack of sleep; I seem to have something of a headache." She rubbed her forehead to consol the concerned badger. He grinned once again and turned back to Bronwyn.

"Ask Arnott to take Miss Puffin home," he said, gesturing back to the helicopter. "I think we are done here tonight. I fear that Hermione needs a rest." He gave her a quick glance and turned to Miss Puffin.

"Thank you for your time madam. I'm sorry if we caused you any discomfort or alarm. We shall take Miss Neyla home once we have returned you safely to your own maid and home." He tried to bestow a smile upon the grouchy lady but only succeeded in a grimace.

'I should think so too Barkley," huffed Agatha Puffin, vaulting to her feet with the stick and striding across the concourse. "This young lady's behaviour has quite disturbed me and I need the comfort of a proper bed. Very polite people you are, but without regard for an old lady's comforts. Come; get that pilot to take me home at once." She finished sucking down the Darjeeling and literally tossed the cup over her shoulder.

The little china vessel arced in mid-air and Bronwyn desperately reached out; catching it in a left-handed grip. Resentfully she stared after the old woman, who had climbed back into the chopper primping her shawl. Barkley sighed.

"Oh my god," she whispered, 'That woman is a true grouch."

"But at least we got something out of her," said Neyla beside her, having returned to her old self. She felt a lot better now and strangely light and springy; almost inexplicably ecstatic.

Barkley exchanged some words with Arnott, and then the chopper pilot nodded. Barkley stood back as the rotors began to spin, first stopping to slide the door shut behind Miss Puffin. Both Neyla and Bronwyn saw her give him a reapproving look, before she dragged a paperback from her pocket and began to read. They just glimpsed that it was Oscar Wilde's _The Picture of Dorian Grey_.

The chopper rose up into the sky and rumbled away in a cloud of flashing light. Barkley returned to the two girls and smiled wanly. Neyla ducked to read her Rolex. It displayed the time: 1:34. Eighteen minutes had passed since Miss Puffin's brief rendezvous with Interpol. She met the eyes of Bronwyn and Barkley, who both nodded. She shoved her list and notebook back into her pocket. Again she had to straighten her Chanel blouse, rumpled in the wind of the helicopter.

A quick thought struck her. She saw the silver feather lying innocently, seeming to tempt her, on the pavement. Without knowing the reason for it she scooped it up and secreted it in her breast pocket. She wrapped it up in her handkerchief snugly. She didn't know why she had kept it; it just seemed to draw her in. It had some magnetic attraction for her. For now she forgot about the object. But later, much later, its secrets would come back to haunt her.

"Come on now love," Barkley said to Neyla in a fatherly manner, "It's time we returned you to your hotel. I fear that you are suffering from a bit of shock since tonight's events. You must be given the proper care. I'm sure that what came over you was just stress and tension; what with the whole media world and all of radio land breathing down your neck. Not to mention that grumpy old lady. Thought at least we obtained what you needed. I'm sure you will do well on this case, as well as becoming a worthy candidate for any future positions at Interpol. I believe you have the greatest of abilities to fulfil yourself."

He positively beamed at her, boosting her spirits to a greater level. Still, she couldn't help but feel a touch of remorse. Her feelings felt almost empty after touching the feather, as if she could not at all return the badger's own feelings. She could not explain it, but the idea almost felt below her. She almost pitied him for this empathy he showed her.

"Thankyou Jean," Neyla replied meekly, "I value your confidence in me." She stifled a yawn. "I fear that I really am rather tired. May we return to the hotel for some sleep?"

"Right now my dear," said Barkley heartily, "I'll summon my other pilot Luc to come and pick us up. I shan't be long." He pulled out a radio transmitter. It crackled when he turned it on. Speaking into the device in a hushed tone, Barkley walked away towards the glass pyramid of La Louvre. He strolled about the concourse as he spoke.

"A good man is the Inspector," said Bronwyn, "I am very proud to work for him."

"A good man indeed," replied Neyla, "It is thanks to men and woman like him that goodness and love remains in the world. Thanks to the decisions that people like you and him make." She gave Bronwyn a meaningful look. "Thank for protecting what is dear to so many people." In later years, in light of the horrendous deeds she would commit, Neyla would come to understand how ironic this sentence was. So ironic that it was unfathomable. Attempting to crush the very opposite of what she stated.

"It is my duty," said Bronwyn, "And I feel privileged to fight for and protect the lives, loves and rights of the people. It is what I love to do. You're very welcome." She too beamed at Neyla, who gave a perfunctory nod, guilt nibbling at her mind before being stifled. _Guilt was for others far lesser than her to feel. Those people like Sly Cooper and his friends._

"At the ready Sir," Bronwyn said as Barkley approached, tucking the transmitter back into his pocket. "Tomorrow I will put my department on standby for the next stage of the case. We prepare for Inspector Fox's return, likely dragging a few scallywags with her too."

"Fantastic Captain Higgins," said Barkley, "The chopper will arrive in five minutes from now. Then we can be on our way back. Good work Bronwyn; and you too Hermione." Both girls beamed again at Inspector Barkley. He blushed a little at their appraisal.

"So I shall get to work alongside Miss Fox soon shall I?" asked Neyla. "I hope she isn't jealous or irritated at having another girl along for the ride. I might steal her thunder you know, with my ravishing looks." She giggled girlishly and patted her dark-brown braids. _I hope I do steal her thunder_, she thought._ She sounds to be a bit of a control freak and_ _thoroughly obsessed with Cooper. She needs her match to put her back in the box; someone to show her that this infatuation with Cooper is deluded. _But she was wrong about this.

"Yes, very soon," laughed Bronwyn, "But I assure you that the Inspector is very serious. She shan't be worried too much with having you along. Just take my advice: she likes to keep things in control and I wouldn't mess with her. She has a fiery temperament, but is really a very nice person. I think you'll work well together."

_Of yes_, thought Neyla, _just like a house on fire. I prefer to work alone a lot of the time: I've learnt that in this world you simply can't trust people. Friends can so easily turn their_ _back on you_. She failed to remember that in return you had to have trust in your own friends besides them having trust in you.

"I hope so," replied Neyla out loud, "I have always been interested in law enforcement and pursuing justice. Besides, it might be fun to strike up a friendship with 'old iron-sides'." She gave a malicious little cackle of her own. The will nibbling at the back of her mind gave her devious pleasure in belittling the Inspector. But she herself would get put back into her box when she met Carmelita. She was not to be trifled or messed with.

"Come now ladies," said Barkley sternly, "No name calling around here. I am very proud of Miss Fox and the job she has done. Especially since her first case involved that braggart Pierre and the priceless Diva Diamond." He was momentarily distracted and rubbed his ears as if the opera diva was still belting high-notes into them.

"I thought that Madame Pachyderma Tuskaninny would cry my ears off, poor thing. Carmelita – Ms. Fox has done exceptionally and I am likely going to promote her when I retire. Then she will head the department in my place and a good job too. I fear I was rather harsh on the girl back then. Knew nothing of her background I did."

"Okay sir," both Neyla and Bronwyn said, acting like two school girls being told off. "We promise to behave." They turned to each other and burst out laughing, pulling themselves together after a minute. They were serious once more. "Really, we genuinely are focused and on the case. We must be to take down The Fiendish Five and capture Cooper. What do we do now?"

"Go home and get a good night's rest," said Barkley. "We'll need to keep our strength up for the duration of this case." He broke off and cocked his head to listen. "I hear the helicopter coming now. Ah, there it is. Come – it's time to go." He plonked the Al Capone hat back on his head and approached the chopper. From behind his black-tinted glasses, the pilot gave Barkley a nod and the thumbs up. "Good job Luc; take us back to Versailles then."

The pilot nodded. The chopper touched down, the rotors still humming as they spun. He did not turn the flashlights on. Barkley heaved the door open for his two companions and they hopped inside. He scanned the area shrewdly then followed them inside. Grabbing the handle, he closed the door of the chopper. Immediately the engines roared to life and the flying machine levitated to the skies. With a buzz it began to fly away over the city of Paris, leaving the picturesque glass pyramid of La Louvre in its wake. Flying over the rooftops they startled a flock of pigeons that soared away in a cloud of feathers. Neyla checked the time on her Rolex: it read 1:40. The glowing symbol of the Eiffel Tower coasted by them as the helicopter flew into the darkened night sky.

For Hermione Jane Neyla, her real journey and adventure had only just begun.

_Yes_, came the thoughts of The Master, _it has now begun_...

#

"Come, hurray me back home young man," said Miss Puffin. "I want to be going home, tucked in under my quilt with a cup of tea and my book. I want to be back amongst my roses at Giverny. Step on it- quick now!" She prodded the pilot in the back with her pinewood stick and glared.

"Oui, Madame," replied Arnott slowly, "Right away Madame." Pulling the controls a little higher, the helicopter pickled up some speed; he did not fancy spending more company than he needed to with the irascible battle-axe. The tapir attempted to hunch further over his controls, trying to block the puffin from sight in his mirrors. He may be reasonably young and in good shape – but no amount of training had prepared him for this.

"Good," Miss Puffin said, apparently satisfied at last.

"Just another half-hour Madame," said Arnott, "Then we will have you home, away from Cooper and all your other troubles." His frail joke fell awkwardly flat with the puffin and he gulped, yanking at his collar. _Uptight old girl she was._ He just tried to forget about her for the rest of the flight and do his job.

So it was they never heard the shot. Then the horrendous crack like a gun being fired. A brief flare of light lit the night, emanating from the area of the railway yards. They never heard the explosion. Half an hour later, three fire engines roared to the spot to quench the flaming inferno. The fire had destroyed a certain carriage: a carriage which had once played home to a brave and unique band of thieves. All the plans it had contained were gone, burnt in the searing blaze. But this had been the intent of the culprit. Now the thief's plans were in ruins, smouldering with the rest of the ash.

However, the assailant was incorrect: nestled in a building somewhere in Paris laid the heart of the operation. The safe house where all the plans were secretly backed-up and stored: his attempt to thwart their plans in favour of The Master's victory had failed. It was a blow but they were still standing; they would stand to fight years after, even when they discovered the treachery. It was only a symbol for them to persist and never give up. For if they did not, then there could be no salvation. The world needed belief and nature like theirs to survive. And it would survive.

The Master's servant could not understand this: did not even bother to try and comprehend. He was merely carrying out the orders he had been bidden to complete. Now he slunk back into the shadows, never seen by the eye of any bystander.

He would not appear again in The City of Lights.

**Chapter 11 of 13 in Part 2 of 6.  
Sly approaches his goal, having bested the villainous General Aqualon. **  
**Neyla is only just entering her great journey with Sly - but the return of Miss Puffin has begun what will ultimately change her life forever.**  
**But behind all these events other enemies are lurking, with frightening schemes that will make the world tremble. Ultimately, who can be trusted and who will fall?**  
**Well, as always, I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter. Chapter fifteen, the second-to-last, will be released in about three weeks. Happy reading - Creative Raccoon.**


	16. Chapter 15 - The Tale of Henriette

**Chapter Fifteen: The Tale of Henriette.**

**Author's Note: This chapter is very long compared to the others, and most other chapters will be at this length. It also juxtaposes a handful of different characters in varying locations, as well as a whole new plot point, which will be important later on. It may just get a little confusing. Chapter 16 will likely be released in two parts and will appear some time after this chapter: there might be a good month between these two chapters.**

**Also, sorry if there are any grammatical errors or spelling mistakes popping up. I am working to fix these. **

**The Isle of Wrath, Southern Wales: 1:36 AM.**

Bentley was in the centre of the group. Murray now followed at the end, watching for any potential ambushers. Carmelita led in the front with Detective Winthrop. Beside Bentley walked Officer O'Connor and Constable Dubois. Pierre was just behind him, watching the box turtle out of one eye. He was clearly not quite sure he could be trusted. Like Carmelita with Sly, he would have his reasons. Bentley felt sympathy because he could hardly blame the mule deer. But, at the end of the day, he always remembered one thing. He would never hurt anyone or take a life acting his part of The Cooper Gang. Then there would be little point in being a thief, a companion of a master thief. There would be nothing he could deserve.

He had something to get out of this. Murray had something he wanted to be fulfilled from this experience. They knew that a value was held deep within their vision of it: that was why they did not let go of the idea. One day they may no longer be thieves. But that day had not yet come. When it did Bentley and Murray could make their choices, alongside their true friend. As long as they lived, no matter what happened, there would always be friendship between them. Bentley wanted Sly to realise that. He didn't have to be always secretive, as Bentley sensed he was. He could be open to him. He didn't need to suffer in silence. They would love him like a brother no matter what. He could open up to them.

That was their bond in hard times, the backbone behind their thieving code of honour. No matter what Sly chose, whether he someday ended up with Carmelita, he would never lose his friends. They would always be there to support him, when he needed them the most. That was what a friend was for – to be there when you really needed them. And they would be. Bentley dearly wanted Sly to see that. He yearned for Carmelita's company, approaching their relationship in a childish but always compassionate or passionate way. He wanted to open up to her too and show his true feelings. Bentley knew all of this, had witnessed – and guessed some of it - from afar. Even if Sly tried to hide it he understood perfectly well.

Sly's 'thing' for Carmelita was always just under the surface, overtaking him at the times when he could not hide his feelings: when he needed to express them. He just had trouble doing that – as she did to him. Bentley understood Sly could make that choice when he realised what he wanted out of life. He had not yet been able to decide that, comprehend it. When he was ready to pass on his family's legacy, cease being the thief and become who he longed to be alongside the girl he loved, it would all become clear, at just the right time. Carmelita had nothing to fear because the Sly she fought for would always be there, waiting for her in the end. She could take comfort in that.

He would never want to hurt her, as he would never do to anyone else. She pursued him for a reason. Because she didn't want to lose him, knowing that in the end he did not want to lose her. She was in truth a person of kindness and warmth, as Sly was able to tell. What she did not have was one to whom she could really express this. From the opposite side of the law this was why he had never ended their relationship. He had never wanted to because it was what kept him going. At the moment he was only trapped in a phase between his two lives: feeling he had a duty to do for one of them. Then, at last, when he had done all he could, felt what could be had been achieved, they would be together. But only when Sly knew the time was right.

When he was ready to give up being a thief for a genuine relationship, give up what he had had with his friends since childhood. He would always have their friendship. Devote the true love he felt to the vixen. Finally he could share his long hidden secrets. But only when he knew he could truly change – he must to be with her. Until then their flirtatious relationship of thief and inspector was what they had. It would fuel him, keep him going in the hope it gave and symbolised. He could enjoy this for the time being, realising in the end he could make it so much more. He had compassion. Sly, the true Sly behind it all, was the noblest person Bentley had ever met.

He would give up being a thief, leave his old life behind, when he felt he could accept his new life. He would someday, when his purpose as a thief had been fulfilled. When he felt that could be accepted, he would let it go – and it would live on. Embodied in the belief he left behind. The real Cooper legacy – the friends who would have their own lives but always remember him, always have his friendship.

The noble raccoon was just waiting to come out, at the moment when he and Carmelita could finally meet. Embrace her; tell her that he loved her and had always cared. Sometime in the future, when he could learn to accept this life – decide what he truly wanted to do with it. He would never hurt her.

Bentley felt himself nudged softly in the small of the back. Pierre was urging him to move, though not harshly but trying to be kind. Emotions flickered behind his deep-blue eyes. Bentley nodded and moved forward. In only an hour from now it was likely they must part ways. But no one would be hurt in the process. They would join Sly and together continue their resistance to the demonic five. Help their friend fulfil his purpose as a thief. They always would while he chose to be so.

Loyalty was what he needed. And Bentley and Murray could give it, for they loved him; loved him as the vixen that chased him did, or could and would in the future. Never give up; there was always hope. Nobody should be left behind. The Cooper Gang motto came to him again: all for one and one for all. Of all the things his mother had said little more had been truer than this - another ray of hope to strengthen all of them in their battle.

The party came to the gate at the back of the compound. It too was hanging open. _Sly is becoming an incredibly adept master thief – a Cooper_, thought Bentley._ I have never seen as clean a job as this ever. I am proud to be counted as his friend, as I am with Murray. _A captain leaned down to cuff the prostrate walrus by a crumpled alarm and then they moved on. Passing under a stone arch they emerged, sodden but determined, on the edge of a wind-blown path. It wound away to the left into rain-swept darkness.

In the distance, floating in the lagoon, the incredible machination of Sir Raleigh's boat could be seen. That was the goal: to bring the monster to an end and capture its mastermind. Rescue Cooper from the jaws of the fiend. Even if he did have to be placed behind bars: they could not let him die. But that was how Interpol thought – justice - almost exactly as the Cooper Gang alongside them.

The party started along the promontory, heading for the boat. They had seen the blimp – the storm machine – and knew they must reach it. It was a duty they had been given, for the benefit of all Europe, if not the world. With all their heart behind it they would not fail. Especially not with Sly, Bentley and Murray giving them a little of their own brand of help along the way: they could work together, even if it did appear to be not so. They could fight for a common goal, even on opposite sides of the law. Bentley would not abandon this. He would not abandon them or anyone else who could truly be descent. Bentley, as were they all, was a true friend.

The box turtle briefly reflected on the times the three of them had shared. The day he himself had launched his electronics business – Amphibian Electronics and Associates – and found he was a wizard with computers; hiring more and more people to work for the company - shares, bank accounts, interest and savings were just some of the perks. Using the money he had made, the three of them had been able to earn an honest living. Not extorting money from what they stole: these were just normally trophies, to remember the many plights they had been through. The skills they had accomplished. Bentley had insisted that they make money in this way: there was no honour in being a thief otherwise.

With Bentley's money they had spruced up the van and outfitted their hideout, as well as running their operations. Bentley was really a business genius, having his company extend to overseas from Paris. Eventually he had hired a CEO to run the company in his place, and the business had flourished. He still continued to receive decent shares and profits, debited to his accounts while he joined Sly and Murray on their capers. They made end's meat anyway: enough to care for their needs and feed each other. But that was enough: it didn't need to be lavish. Working under a pseudonym, Bentley had become known as the mysterious Master of Business. He would not have lived off anything someone else had earned: this was dishonest and Bentley was just about the most honest person Sly knew – Carmelita being up there too.

Then there had been Murray, racing the van in his spare time on any dirt track or course to raise a little cash. This also helped them along financially. Murray was proud to have taken after his parents. He loved the van and the rush brought to him when he raced the vehicle. This 'hobby' of Murray's accounted for the flames, ultra-thick tires, over-large headlights and radically coloured attire of the van. Murray just loved racing in anything and everything – the spirit of his parents born into him. He hoped to make them proud and make sure they were not forgotten, he was here to stay. Murray could also drive, pilot or fly just about anything. This was a useful talent for one of two best friends of a master thief. He was tough and completely resilient.

On the side Sly had occasionally worked a casual occupation as a barista, working in a small French cafe called La Vache du Lait. He could whip up a decent cappuccino or a frappe or a straight black and just about anything else. This was also a handy skill to have: he could produce a descent refresher for his friends when needed. It was appreciated enormously. But, of course, Bentley did not drink coffee in favour of the healthier nature of tea. Murray and Sly both liked a spot of it from time to time. Bentley did not at all begrudge this; he was warmed by the sense of community and togetherness they shared. Sly was a continual source of inspiration for Bentley, always standing fast and never compromising his true nature; even in spite of certain factors - always extending his hand for the benefit of others when needed.

Bentley said it was good to have some skill in hospitality: versatility was the key. Sly's occasional earnings also helped prop them up, earning him even more affection from his friends. Of course, like Bentley – it was not necessary for Murray when racing – Sly worked under a pseudonym. He got a little bit of a kick out of the secrecy.

But, while he wanted to remain a master thief, he could not have Interpol crawling all over him. Over the course of the years the three of them had become known as 'Sly Cooper the thief', 'Bentley the Brains' and 'Murray the Brawn'. They were, however, strangely respected. The police never treated, or approached in the same way as other criminals. It was like they sensed that, beneath the facade, they both worked towards the common goal – on different sides.

He knew that Sly had a 'thing' for Carmelita. But he didn't mind. In fact he was grateful. Grateful his friend could truly love and be passionate; defying and remaining unaffected by the tragedy he had faced. As he had yet to find Carmelita had too. He was not giving up in the face of adversity, always choosing to love. Bentley was proud of him: he was always exhibiting that strength and the belief in that. He had and so far never would give Bentley any reason to doubt that he did not truly love. The Fiendish Five were the complete opposite, motivated by greed and power for their achievement ends - self-embellished hurt and regret and pain. This seemed to be why they did what they did, why they joined The Master. Lacked the passion and friendship of loved ones – who would chose to live like that? Bentley sniffed back a tear. His glasses misted up somewhat.

Bentley was sure he recognised Sly taking every chance to 'hit-on' Carmelita. He just adored flirting with her in his childish manner, unable to express his true feeling but yearning to be close to her. He valued their relation more deeply than Carmelita allowed herself to believe. He didn't want to lose her now, fearing to let her go. He loved her but part of him told him that he was not ready for that choice. He could be passionate but not yet make that step, the step that would eventually symbolise his true compassion. He could not bring himself to do anything that might disappoint or hurt her. Something also told him that she had had much of that. That was why he sometimes delayed the gang to 'hit-on' the vixen.

Because to him and to her his continuous return gave hope: she was comforted, he was comforted by the fact that he was always there. The back of her mind told her that he was just waiting for the right moment to express his love. Both dearly hoped that could come one day. Because of Sly's belief Carmelita had little cause to worry: the time would come but not yet. Until then she would just have to continue fighting and never back down, never relinquish her belief. Never let go of the precarious but ultimately precious relationship with her beloved ringtail. Like justice he was worth fighting for.

Like Bentley surmised she did, neither had any doubt that his - their friend represented the greatest treasure that anyone could ever have: never giving reason to doubt that he had ever ceased to be a passionate raccoon. Always a passionate person in truth, which had never ceased to inspire Bentley; that night, under the big old oak tree at the Happy Camper Orphanage, a truly great band of master thieves had been born.

**Monte Carlo, Monaco: 1:37 AM.**

In the background of the large atrium an antique radio was burbling away. The slightly distorted sound of the music echoed melodiously, bouncing off the enormous glass chandelier and polished marble surfaces. The tune playing was _Non, Je ne Regrette Rien_, an original sung by Edith Piaf. The song was one of the Madame's favourites. Looking out from over the exquisitely carved wrought-iron balustrade, she was able to get a fine few of the Monte Carlo harbour. Even at this very early hour of the morning it was indeed a sight.

Golden specks of light shone out across the ivory-coloured water like so much jewellery. Yet, even at this time, the famous Monte Carle casino was flourishing with guests gambling away their money to be used in squandering even more people's fortunes. The Madame never gambled herself: she just liked counting the bills from the revenue brought in. It was rumoured that the prince of Monaco was staying at the hotel across from her manor. Maybe he would pump a few extra millions into her fiancée's nightclub downtown. Who knew what art pieces she could retrieve then? She herself was a lover of fine art. Indeed the manor itself, the famous Chateau du Faux Personne, was its own piece of art. It was like an enormous encrusted jewellery box, the container for her collection.

She glanced at the gold-plated chunk of a timepiece on her porky wrist: her fiancée was ten minutes overdue, as his gift to her said. However, so amorously infatuated was the woman that she did not recognise that her husband-to-be was rather a swindler. Across Europe he ran rather shady and questionable nightclubs, scraping in their revenue with glee. His most well-known club was La Theatre Formidable on the Seine in Paris. In reality this was just a backdrop for an expansive art forgery and counterfeit smuggling operation. But the Madame was rich: she was too baby-eyed over her would-be lover to notice much. He was hoping to marry her for her money – most importantly her art collection.

Ten metres across the atrium was an enormous glass window set above a tremendous set of imported mahogany doors. The doors were inlaid with gold plate handles. On the atrium floor below was an intricate jade and marble mural depicting Botticelli's famous _Birth of Venus_. Several potted palms imported direct from Polynesia lined the floor. A four metre high stone Moai sat to the left of the front doors – a genuine article.

Two grand staircases wrapped themselves around in a ninety degree angle up to the landing. She smiled happily; the grand chamber was also lined with paintings of Da Vinci, Picasso, Dali, Rembrandt and many others beside. These were not just copies either but the actual thing. More gifts from her oily fiancée.

Finally, Madame Beverly Chantal D'Oinkeau opened the embossed envelope in her hand. Inside was an invitation printed on royal blue paper. In printed script it read: _You are most humbly invited to a cordial gathering of fine art collectors and enthusiasts to be held in Mesa City at the upstanding Bone Yard casino. Mr Bruce 'Muggshot' Swanson himself would like to invite you to his friendly party of dancing, feasting and fun. Fine accommodation will be given and provided for the duration of your stay. Other distinguished guests will be present during this event. We would crave your company at one of the world's top and finest gambling establishments. Mr Muggshot would like to extend a warm welcome to any guests he would be honoured to have attend.  
Not only will this event serve as a mingling point for some of the world's finest, but it will be an opportunity for international co-operation and ties across nations. _

_Mr Muggshot is an advocate for this idea and would like to strongly encourage links between nations, especially in doing what we can to economically and artistically enrich the world. Being held at this location we would like to make it apparent of our opposition to nations expressing financial hardship. By all means discuss monetary and financial agreements during your stay with us. We would be most honoured to have you present, yours sincerely, Maxwell 'Butch' Stringer – CEO to the Muggshot financial empire._

If the Madame had noted the last name of Mr Maxwell 'Butch' Stringer she might have been somewhat suspicious. As the title of the morning's paper blurted out, he was obviously a cousin of some sort to you-know-who. She was just too excited at the thought of attending a party full of the world's finest art collectors and entrepreneurs. Finally she and her fiancée could be among their own people, the beautiful people. Maybe her good friend and billionaire art collecting associate Monsieur Le Paradox would be there. It would be just like him; she hadn't seen Cyrille in a long time. The skunk was the least of her concerns. Muggshot's apparently honest intentions were really just a cloak for a grand financial scam.

Squeeze all the money he could out of having all those rich airheads at once. Not only that but he could use them to boost his own image, making him even more money. Recently his gambling empire had become one of the ten biggest businesses in the world – mostly thanks to extortion and rigging of the gambling tables. The chances were a million to one: he was too clever to be caught and did not plan to start now. He liked the company of a stack of hundred dollar bills too much. It would not be long before one thief in particular brought these sinister arrangements crashing down around his ears.

Wake him up to the selfish nature and emotionally degrading effects of his actions. There was enough trouble in the world already without his corruption. It was terrible what he did. Greed for money was never satisfied until it had eaten away everything else. And that's what he liked to do, because he himself had once experienced hardship. To cure bitterness like that it needed to be shown that pain did not cure more pain. So wrapped in his own success was he that he would unlikely admit to this. So it took someone like Inspector Fox to show him that he could not get away with it. For some people just liked to watch the world burn. Muggshot was one of these people. He took pleasure in causing pain to other people, insisting on the ignorance that his tormentors had once been tormented themselves by one like he. It had been his choice that had got him where he was today: the only thing blinding him was refusing this as a truth.

It had been entirely the fault of others. He had rejected the idea of compassion in favour of being the soul person he could confide in. He did not trust – thus he had no real friends. This had been his ultimate downfall. Now he believed that praying on others was an entirely justified thing to do. He would need to be shown that this could never, never be true. Fight for something worth fighting for and that made all the difference. He hardly even trusted himself.

It took courage to make the right choices: courage of which he had been robbed by his past experience, which he could not summon the courage to regain. There was always hope. One just had to be able to see it. As far as he was concerned he already did: what he did was the only way. If you did not have the guts to crush others in your path for what you wanted then you were weak, laughable with silly ideals of love and passion. He liked to think of himself as strong and independent and of a perceptive mind. With this train of thought he could never have been more wrong in his life.

She sighed in bliss and folded the paper up, placing it back in its envelope. She tucked the envelope into a draw of a Hawaiian palm wood side table and closed it. Ruffling the folds of her navy-blue silk Jean Gautier dress, Beverly patted the great blond bun on her head and descended the staircase. She was a little out of breath when she reached the bottom. She jangled the pearl necklace at her thick neck. At last she heard the hurried footsteps of her fiancée coming along the hall.

The marine iguana appeared on the landing laden down with suitcases. He spotted his porky princess and gave her a sickeningly sweet and obviously false smile. She was so wrapped up in him that she did not notice at all.

"Hurry up my urbane prince," she crooned, "Or we'll be late for our flight."

"I'm coming my candy piece," said the iguana in an oily voice. "But why must we take all da bags?" He had two large cases under his right arm and two more under the left with three stripped hat boxes. An assortment of bags hung from his neck.

"Because a woman needs her accessories," said Beverly. "Now come along my sweet – there's only one flight direct to JFK International tonight."

"Why so early my love?" said the iguana. He grimaced, forcing the words from his lips.

"Because, being the rich socialite I am," she said simperingly, "I do not wish to attract too much attention. The people of Monaco will be all over me." Besides being very wealthy Madame D'Oinkeau was also rather vain. The iguana rolled his eyes.

He looked down upon his wide-bosomed fiancée and groaned silently. _Women and their fashion – she was too engrossed in his greasy sweet charm to realise he was hardly interested in the pig. He was only attending this ball to please her, not to mention getting close to all the other socialites. _He liked to mix with the 'chic' crowd.  
_  
_Dmitri liked to think that he was 'cool' as well as a glitzy Paris nightclub owner, greasy-sweet dancer and grandiose art collector and artist of the talented kind._ Who knew what art treasures he could 'collect' in the states. _He thought himself to be very hip, dressed in a startlingly fluoro-green jacket with a flared neck. He wore fluoro green trousers with a large silver belt buckle and a low-slung under-shirt that was a sickening shade of orange. His complexion was dark purple and a little sickly. There were about seven different coloured and chunky rings on his long fingers. His great thing of a tale trailed behind as would a giant purple slug.

"As you wish my love," he said. "After all, being social and hip digs better than da biggest bling." He thought for a moment. "But I have the money and you like the money?"  
"Of course," said Beverly in shock, "How could I ever disapprove of you my dear?"

"Well that's greasy sweet," he said, hurrying for another fakery to spit out. "Because when we get to the party I am going to be busting the moves and all. If you are not dancing then I'll freak out. Then I'll be saying the juice, the juice, which got the juice?" Beverly laughed at her fiancée's ridiculous banter.

"Come along now," she said, "My chauffer is waiting to take us in the Rolls Royce to Charles de Gaulle. Get those suitcases into the car my pumpkin."

"Well I got the moves," said the marine iguana, pumping the air with a fist. "I am getting these bags in the car lightening fast because I am smooth baby – smooth!" He put a foot forward and promptly crashed down the stairs, landing in a heap of cases at the bottom.

_BANG!_

"Of course," he said as he got up again, "I am not falling around all the time like some macaroni. When I am there the party will be in da full swing; I am not a cracker box."

Beverly looked at her fiancée, prostrate at her feet. Dmitri Lousteau had some charm about him all right. That was what came of having a famous marine biologist for a father.

"Indeed you are not," she said lovingly, "Now just have those over to the doors and we'll have them in the boot." She neglected to assist Dmitri with the bags herself. A lady must not do heavy lifting like that – that was left to the men. When she met her a year later –aside of the ball in Mesa City - it would be a stark contrast against Carmelita Montoya Fox.  
"Coming," said Dmitri, heaving up the luggage and dragging it to the doors which had now been flung wide by two white-gloved butlers. One of them opened the passenger door to the Rolls while another laid down a red velvet throw. Madame D'Oinkeau tottered in her tight slippers over it and plopped down inside the car. She took a martini from the mini fridge inside.

"We don't have all day my pet," she said to Dmitri, almost collapsing under the bags as he heaved them to the boot. Another chauffeur assisted him in lugging the backs in - he slipped the man a bill and flopped into the Rolls beside the pig. She snuggled up to him. He almost wanted to be sick: she had on a vile perfume that smelt of cherry blossom and coconut.

"Wacky, wacky, wacky," he moaned, groovy as always. "We are on our way at last. It's time that me and my greasy sweet suit strutted da moves over in da states. Let's be off then driver." He punched a fist and grazed his knuckles on the roof. He jumped up in surprise and succeeded in smashing his head through the sunroof. By the time they had made the necessary repairs they were almost half an hour over schedule. The chauffeur hurriedly jumped into the driver's seat and started the engine. The doors were slammed and the car crunched on pebbles before pulling away.

"Are you all right my lovely?" said Beverly, squeezing his hand. Shuddering at this touch he tried to pull away but she grabbed his chin and nuzzled up to his face. "Nothing shall hurt my sweetie pie."

"No need for that my macaroni," he exclaimed, pulling away in disgust. "Dmitri is so awesome that it takes an awful lot of groove to steal ma move. Don't need to freak out." He sighed in relief as she released him.

"Love you my prince," she said, her lips smacking together horribly. "I'm sure we'll be the jewel in the crown at this party, along with my good friend Cyrille. After all, I am one of the richest women in Monaco and all of Europe for that manner. We shall be the toast of this event."

"As you wish," said Dmitri in an exasperated tone. "Nothing is too good for you." He groaned again and settled back into his seat. He had a long ride to look forward to. At least things would be more enthralling than this when they arrived. Just how enthralling he did not guess, ignorant of the Cooper Gang's mission. With the eventual arrival of Interpol the party might just get a little too exciting. But he could not know any of this.

"A nice aqueous martini my sweetums" D'Oinkeau said, offering Dmitri a transparent fluted glass filled with nothing but water and a pimento olive.

The iguana eyed the drink: _stupid, pretentious things they were. All these new-fangled idiocies thought up by rich fatheads and bureaucrats who had nothing better to do with their time. What idiot drank nothing but water with an olive? _He sighed, knowing he could not displease D'Oinkeau if this charade was to continue. The minuscule dot of actual affection he felt, though virtually non-existent, made him extend his hand to accept the glass.

"Just show me your bling and let me shine you," he said, sipping the olive-tainted water.

The marine iguana then settled back to enjoy the ride to Charles de Gaulle International.

**The Isle of Wrath, Southern Wales: 1:38 AM.  
**_  
_ Carmelita pointed her face to the sky, letting the rain run down her fine, pretty features. She rubbed thoughtfully at the little beauty mark on her left cheek and sighed. _Cooper, Cooper, Cooper; what a puzzle he was. _When she saw Sly she felt anger, outrage, frustration and pain – something about the special relationship that seemed to exist between them. It pained her because she had to chase him, because of what he was. But he did give something back to the world, did return something and did not just take from it.

In that way he was a symbol for hope and something more: just as she was and continued most persistently to be. She acted as a symbol for hope and goodness – this was something she one day sensed would come from their relationship. There was something in him, why she had never given up on him since their first meeting at the Paris opera. Sure he was almost teasing, flirtatious and downright arrogant at times – _boy, could he be arrogant and full of himself when he wanted to be. _Regardless he still had that boyish charm: like a small child who had grown up without guidance, trying to fulfil the expectations of his family. Proud to be doing so, fighting for something worth fighting for: just as she did for her own parents. Gone, snatched away – gone with the wind. Just like that.

In that way he really was working towards a true and proper purpose. She just could not accept that now. Part of her wasn't even ready for that anyway – what did it mean to her? She couldn't accept the raccoon at this point in her life, it just wasn't meant to be. Yet, that was the operative word – yet. Someday it could, and maybe it would be. But not yet, which was why, she told herself, why she was after him. She had to set things right. As of yet she was only at the beginning. To make the end truly worth having, she would have to fight and put the effort in to get there, which she would. _What can it be that I see in him?  
_  
The naturally iron-willed spirit of her mother born into her encouraged her, allowed her to move forwards. It was the other side of her, the side which told her when the choices she made were what she really wanted to be right. What was always the truest choice? Like never hurting Sly – she would never kill the thief. An act of slaughter without great reason would not be justice. Even in relation to the pond-dwelling fascist who she hoped to capture tonight. She would not take his life: that would only blur the line further. There was no great reason to, making her little better than he. Carmelita would never be like that, she could not. She had the potential for so much more. Sly was like her, but acting as a symbol.

When she met Cooper, that being quite soon, she would tell him of her thoughts. Allow him a rare window into that corner of herself which few rarely saw. She had to let him know. It was her duty, as the inspector she was, to set things right. She thought fleetingly of the file, the file which he had whisked away only days before. The file she had never had the chance to read in its entirety. She had been told it contained all known records of Sly Cooper's life until his twenty-first birthday, as well as information and exclusive data on The Fiendish Five. This was the only part of the file she had actually read; keen to bring the criminals to justice. Although she felt the same about Sly, she had never really tried to read that part of the file. Part of her told the heart that she wasn't ready for that: the time had not been now.

Even though her chance had been brief before he snatched it away, she had never really wanted to. There were things she didn't know about Sly; a lot of things. But a part of her said she wanted to learn them from the raccoon himself. Give him the chance to tell her who he was. This would give it so much more meaning, meaning that words written on paper never could. She could know that when he thought he could tell her. And she would wait for that moment, always. He frustrated her, at times came close to breaking her heart in two. But he had never gone that far.

The unbidden adoration of his welled up inside, telling how he never could bare to hurt her. Never would want to. She just had to set things right. She had a role to play, for him as well as many others, which she must continue to do. That meant so much. Just as that choice she had made, the choice to never read that file. That had meant something – something which she could not define just yet, which she struggled with.

She was always behind Sly. For now she had to let the inspector in herself take over. This was what she needed to do. That was something to be proud of, which would bring the end its meaning. She was coming for Sly, to put him behind bars. To her all thieves might be the same in action, but not the same in spirit. There was a person beyond that mask; not a monster.

Carmelita felt almost amused. Here she was attempting to arrest him and he was almost always just out of reach. This irritated her too: he should know that she was serious. Which she was pretty sure he did. This was the here and now, which she did not desire to escape. Right now she had to put him behind bars, able to act alongside him but not truly accept him. That time was not yet. Love could wait, though. If what she felt, and he felt was genuine; love never died. Not if it had been there in the first place all along. Whether by ending up in a cell or making his own choice Carmelita guessed that Sly did not always plan to be a thief. That was – likely to her, possibly - why he seemed to be so passionate in their relationship: childish but truly caring.

That was why he seemed to be so passionate in their relationship: childish but truly caring. Sometimes he appeared to go out of his way to help her. She grinned, shaking her head. _Why else would he have returned the diamond, instead of taking it himself or letting Pierre take it?_ A symbol of the love he felt to her, and so many. He was an unpredictable gentleman. Sometimes downright frustrating and irritating: but he cared for their relationship.

He valued it for what it gave him and to her. There was something he still wanted from being a thief, something he could still do for his family and the world. It was likely he was just not yet sure what he wanted from life. She was afraid of hurting herself and him, besides disappointing so many others if she succumbed to his charm now. _No, she must perform her_ _duty of justice_.

She would find him and they would talk. They could work together to set things right. There had been something of magnitude in that choice, the one little choice she had made to not read that file. She had yet to discover this, discover how this was part of her. Together Sly, she and his friends were on a journey. Who knew what was to come?

One thing she could tell herself with certainty was that Sly would never become a true criminal in the future. The young man she had met at the Paris Opera had never, in blatant truth, seemed like any of the devious criminal masterminds she dealt with.

Through all dealings she had had with him he had presented himself as being far too compassionate, loving for that. None of the treasures he stole ever appeared on the black market. Even the Fire Star of India had suspiciously re-appeared at its temple twenty-four hours before, posted in a heavily-guarded and unmarked package. _Oh, Cooper was a lovable, perhaps unpredictable rogue - full of devious charm and skill, that cheeky raccoon. _Carmelita couldn't help feeling a little affection in return to his gestures.

He was always different by those little displays of love. Their relationship had its course to chart. She would continue to believe that the real Sly was always there. This could mean so much to her and him, together. Something she did not yet know, too, the world. Sly had something to give back to the world, to her.

Even though her other side fought with this idea – had difficulty and trouble in explaining it - , she could not deny the truth it held. He had never taken anything without giving or contributing all the more in return. Like her love for him. The fact he had always come back meant something was there. He put something back into their love, did not dance like some child _always_ out of reach. He did put something back - love. She thought she could see it, peaking out, reaching for her, behind his exterior. It was the ultimate choice that made the final difference. It twinkled there inside.

There was hope, genuine hope. And in this world, on this long winding path, Carmelita knew that there was nothing which ever made more of a true difference.

She could figure it out, give herself time. Something told her that she was doing things right. There was sense in the way she treated Sly, a true attitude of justice towards him. This was kind of what both she and Sly were getting out of their regular rendezvous together. This is what they felt was their path now, but they did not forget hope for what was yet to come. She must not give up – the time would come. It needed to be given that time. There was hope, genuine hope. And in this world, on this long winding path, Carmelita knew that there was nothing which ever made more of a truer, greater difference.

Beneath it all the true Sly Cooper she would one day come to know had stolen her heart.

#

Murray plodded along, staying close to the ledge, watching for any possible dangers. He didn't trust at any point here that they were out of harm's way. The sooner all of them were out of here, the better. He did not like the idea of his friend's lives being in danger. No more than of any Interpol officers, especially those around him. He would do all he could and what he was able to ensure no harm came to them. Not as a cause of what they were trying to achieve. Like Bentley and Sly, who concealed the depths of his feelings, keeping them secret, Murray would not stand for this. He was determined and that boosted his strength.

Even what he had helped the gang achieve thus far bolstered his hopes. Since leaving the orphanage, all the little heists and jobs they had pulled; more recently, the retrieval of Sly's file. That had been a most important heist indeed. Bentley had said it contained major details and important information on The Fiendish Five. It contained essential data pertaining to their operations, plans, locations and precise whereabouts. They had needed that as one more tool in their battle against them. Bentley really was a wizard. With this data alone he had been able to mount their offensive. Without this they would have been groping in the dark. Bentley's guidance was without price. Sly had really proved himself. Murray was happy with the part he had played here.

Murray adored Bentley, even though they might squabble at time to time. They had been best mates at Happy Camper. Bentley had been the first to show him kindness, show him friendship - as Sly had done soon after. Together they had stuck together. Murray was proud of this. He held this memory dear. He recalled the times they had between jobs, driving along in the van. Chatting, laughing and cracking jokes. Those were good times, a real band of rag-tag but ultimately loyal and compassionate friends. As a product of this they had never been out to cause harm to anyone. This was contrary to their friendship.

Maybe someday Murray could teach Bentley a few tricks. Teach him to handle vehicles the way he could, as Sly could handle situations with his agility. Or Murray could with his strength. With his finesse and prowess, Bentley was a virtuoso in technology, so why not with vehicles as well - just mechanical instead of electrical.

Murray would give him support; he knew that Bentley was somewhat nervous when it came to driving. That was why Murray was normally at the helm of the van. Bentley had never learned how to drive a stick-shift. But it was not too hard: he would teach him how. Teach his friend the ropes. It was okay to be nervous. Sly would be encouraging too. And that was what they all were: encouraging to each other and everyone. Murray was proud for the roll he had played. The roll he would continue to play now, especially when he was needed the most. He was so proud of it.

Murray walked on, a barrier against the cold rain. He was stoic and could not be easily defeated. He was there for his friends. They were there for him. He smiled and was happy. He was lucky beyond measure. He possessed what money could never buy, and was infinitely more valuable. The treasure of friendship, the bond between them of love, it warmed him from within. He would remain there for it, represent it. For an idea could not die. Ideas were impervious to any blade or bullet. He knew that. There just had to be belief in it. Belief which he had in himself but equally in those around him: he was happy. He had all that he really needed in the world.

With his eyes fixed on the winding trail ahead he did not notice it. But if he had, his heart would be gladdened. He would have been happy to know there was that one little bit of extra belief: belief in hope. For it was Carmelita, smiling at him as if she could tell what he thought - but she had that idea from his body actions. A tear was wiped from her left eye. She had to imprison him like Sly, while this went on, but she could understand one thing. It was your ultimate choices and actions that determined your true nature. Something which she had fleetingly seen in Murray; she had been able to glimpse the true Murray now too.

And that gave her heart to go on. Even though it had been so before, she now knew for certain that the cause she fought for had never been lost. If it was worth fighting for, which she was almost certain of now, it could be proven. It was, and then it never would be lost.

#

Raleigh sat and grumbled. No, he raged and seethed. His white-gloved fists were clenched on the arms of the throne upon which he sat. Briefly he clawed at the blood-red velvet cushions. _His men had failed him. Interpol was coming for him now. The Master would be furious and this would be the end of his wealth; the rest of his life behind bars, if The Master didn't get to him first. _Raleigh cringed, fearing punishment from his malevolent and mysterious superior. _No, he must do something about it. All was not lost yet. Even if Cooper has survived, I will finish him myself. Then I will leave here with the storm machine. Go someplace else where Interpol cannot get to me. This is not the end. I must finish the boy. Marius has already failed me – I'll leave him here to whatever fate awaits. He deserves that punishment for failing me, me – Sir Raleigh! My operation, my purpose must not fail._

Raleigh coiled up on his cushion, felling tense and angered. _That wretched raccoon has dared defy me. He will pay dearly; I will see to that myself. We should have finished him when we had the chance. Why did my master not finish him then? Why? He must have had some reason. Bah, that is not important now. All that matters is that I kill him. He cannot leave here alive. I always hated the Cooper lineage anyway. How they embraced 'love' and 'compassion'. They were deluded. And it will be I who crush the last of their line: like a fly beneath my thumb. I must do anything to achieve that. _Raleigh cackled softly to himself.

He felt deliciously satisfied that he would soon finish the boy. Show him his poor and pitiful mistakes. Put him out of his misery. It gave him satisfaction that he would achieve The Master's ultimate goal: he must, for it was his last chance. Even now he would be furious. Raleigh had grown up with greed and tyranny for most of his life, so he didn't really understand that you didn't have to give in to it. Do the things he did – the villainous deeds. He had to fight it, or he would only corrupt himself.

But it was almost too late for Raleigh, like the general he had corrupted to fulfil his bidding. He would have to face a great deal of courage, a great deal of remorse to change now. He feared making that choice. He feared to admit that he had once loved – the idea scared him. He preferred to feign the story of betrayal. He had been lying to himself most of his life. Now he had to make the most important choice of his life. He needed to have true courage: not what he had deluded his person into thinking was courage. He had to realise the mistakes he had truly made. But he thought himself above that.

_Captain Tusk failed me and Barkley is still alive. General Aqualon has failed me and now Cooper is coming for me. But I will destroy him. Not to mention, I fear that Marius' men failed to wipe out the Interpol force that threatens me now. But no matter: they can be dealt with. I will show them who the real master is here. Nobody shall imprison Sir Raleigh. _Such was his vanity that he talked about himself in the third person. He was also quite wrong: his overconfidence would only assist in his downfall, especially while he underestimated Carmelita's determination and spirit. His scepticism in conviction and belief; he could have just made another of his life's biggest mistakes.

_I should be able to have what I want and nothing should stop me – nothing should have to get in my way. I can do whatever I want to obtain my desire, any desire that I wish. Nothing or no one stands in my way; why should I not have the right to anything I fancy? I am just able to take it – so why not? Nothing and no one will stand in my way – especially Sly Cooper. I have the right to have it and take it for my own. And right now all I want is wealth and the end of that wretched child. The last living Cooper, a blot on the resume: I will do whatever necessary to achieve my desire and his end. He must be wiped out and now! I will do whatever I can and must to save my empire. There is no hesitating or turning back, not like him – that is weak. I will do whatever I need to obtain my desire. And I have the right to it; no single thief is going to steal that away from me now – never!_

Raleigh was almost frothing at the mouth, consumed by his anger at Sly. His desire began to overcome him and now he felt pure hatred, the greed for gold and treasure flowing through him, taking over him. It was all he saw and wanted; he would do whatever he must to obtain it. The temptation reeled him in. All he wanted was gold, treasure and wealth: who cared who stood in his way and who he had to crush?

He must have what he wanted, no matter what it took. The villainous monster laughed maniacally, narrowing his bulging eyes. While he cluing to this single, selfish goal, he was indeed little more than a monster. He wanted nothing but for his own personal gain: no matter whom he had to slaughter or kill to get at it. Again that was the difference between him and his enemy, although he could not understand it. If he could not accept his mistakes, the atrocities he had committed, then maybe someone would have to do that for him.

Sly would endeavour to stop him; maybe he could be saved. Maybe there was a glimmer of hope left in that shell. Who really knew? Raleigh had come to the crossroads; it was time for him to give back for what he had done. Maybe he could make the choice, the right choice in the future. But while the monster and his ambition remained, it was doubtful. He must have courage to relinquish his ambition, fuelled by selfish motives. It was time he felt some remorse. A life could always be worth sparing, if it had hope. Unless it was forced to that final action, the point of no return - only then was it done.

Raleigh had that chance to make a decision, to change his path. He would have time, a long time to make that decision. Try for some remorse – try for some love. He could not do that right now, not while he was locked up in his visions. He must appreciate what it was to have compassion. Sly was giving him that chance, a chance which would be given to him again in the future.

All he had to do was overcome his old demons and desires, try for some remorse, and take that chance. He just had to trust in that chance, realise he could hope for anything other than what he had already. He just needed to relinquish his old self, have trust, and take that chance. The chance to love: have the courage to love once more; as he had once done many years ago. His old-self still existed within that hard shell: the old self which had once had the courage to love, and maybe someday could – like Sly did – someday in the future.

He needed to be able to take his chance, and trust in love once more.

#

Agent Reptile crouched in a rocky alcove, the torrential rain dripping from his wire-framed glasses. Behind him, tethered in the choppy swell, was a small boat. The vessel which had carried him here: with its small size and his nautical skills and knowledge of the tides, the agent had just managed to fight his way to the isle. Though he was shaken, having just survived the perilous journey, the journey on which many had died.

Hopefully, thanks to Cooper's endeavours, his own son and their hippo friend – as well as Interpol – Sir Raleigh would be brought to justice. Know the truth of the terrible damage he had done. It was the only way he himself could be saved. Someone had to fight for goodness, for hope, and someone would. He was one of them. Only his object was his old friend. Stringer too must be stopped; he must not use the Spear-Head. In the wrong hands it possessed a terrible power, a power to destroy and cause pain and suffering. That must not happen, he would not let it.

Maybe he could appeal to his old friend one more time, make him see reason. His chosen path could only lead to bitterness, hatred, destruction and regret. Anyone could be more than that, if they made that choice - if Stringer had the courage to choose it. The agent blinked back a tear; either way, he would know in the end. He could not let his friend stand between him and the safety of the world – international security. He knew what must be done, but did not forget his compassion. He hoped there was more to his old friend.

At the very end, when he was really needed to choose, that would be most pivotal, most important. Courage – Agent Reptile stiffened his resolve. He would not lose that, such a potent weapon. He was proud of all he knew who had made choices like his, like the one he had made now. Devoting his fight ultimately for innocence and freedom, for an end worth fighting for - the freedom to live and know what it was to love; a treasure greater in value than any gold.

#

Winston Nicholas Higgins thought of his sister, Bronwyn, holed up in Versailles or Paris some place - watching the case like a hawk. Higgins loved his sister. Affection which he knew she shared for him. He would fight for that, that love and compassion. He had a mission to complete, a purpose within himself he wanted to fulfil. He would only fall while he fought for it. It was something that, if in the end he must, he would die for. But he had strength, strength in his hope. He would do all he could for the world, its innocent people.

He had his own feelings for Sly Cooper and his friends. He would never forget their gestures, those Bentley had made to him. The compassion, the love he could certainly glimpse there. He would also keep safe Carmelita's little gestures of affection. This meant so much, and so much to him. On this journey, it would mean even more to him and his friends. Together they would fight for what was truly worth fighting in the world. He would achieve that, would always try to achieve that.

_One thing's for certain, _Higgins thought to himself,_ when you have a reason to fight for something, working for Interpol is never dull or boring work. Especially since we remember what we are truly trying to save, and don't go to the depths of these real criminals. That is something I can always – that Bronwyn would always agree with. _Once again Higgins was ready to fight. He, like the Cooper Gang – Carmelita of course – had not lost courage.

The world would be free.

**The Forecourt of Notre Dame, Paris, France: 1:45 AM.**

Bronwyn was glad she had changed her mind. The night was cold, and it was late. After having a quick word with Barkley they had agreed that everyone needed rest and sleep. Rest and sleep which was needed right now. So Barkley had ordered their chopper pilot, Luc, to come down and land at Notre Dame, one of the few places where the pavement was big enough for a safe landing. He had ordered Luc to drop them off and return for them in the morning. Then the threesome would go back to the head-office in Versailles.

The head-offices of the French branch of Interpol, the international police, were luxuriant and comfortable. But tonight it was just too far. As Luc come down over the gothic spires of the cathedral, Barkley keyed a number on his Samsung and phoned the hotel. They would stay in rooms at Le Chat Gris, one of Paris' many famous tourist hotels.

As the chopper lifted off from the cobblestones, Barkley, Neyla and Bronwyn trudged away. In the distance, glowing pink letters proclaimed – in French – Le Chat Gris; room service available. The three headed for it now. Barkley pulled his hat close, tucked his Samsung into a pocket. Neyla pulled her Chanel coat tight around her figure and glanced at the Rolex on her left wrist. Bronwyn now wore a tartan nylon scarf, secured snugly about her throat. The Labrador's nose twitched in the cold.

Earlier, just minutes ago, she thought she had heard the sound of a muffled explosion. But the brief noise had quickly faded. Not wanting anymore to worry about until they returned to Versailles, Bronwyn grabbed her hat – pulled it down low – and dismissed the thought. The Parisian Gazette would surely reveal any story swiftly. She only wanted to think about the current case, The Fiendish Five. Capturing them and ending their criminal empire. They had evaded the law, ducked into its loopholes for too long.

She thought she could rely on Inspector Carmelita Fox, her own brother, Winston. Maybe Interpol would also nab Sly Cooper. She couldn't help feeling a little fond for him – he was not a true criminal at heart. She liked that, liked the raccoon for that. She thought she even understood that together, it was time for them to end this. Otherwise the Cooper Gang may not have crossed paths with Interpol at this crucial moment.

Sly was still innocent in some way, just a young man, as his eight years old self had been. A victim of that terrible, suspicious murder; a murder Bronwyn and most Interpol officials were sure was the work of The Fiendish Five – at the Cooper family farm in Brittany. For that, and all their atrocities, they must be stopped. Hope and belief would always remain in the world – someone always fighting for it. _Cooper, his friends..._

There was hope, something so much more beyond malevolence and true acts of crime. And she, along with so many others, believed in it, fighting for it: as Sly Cooper and his friends did, in their own, special way. They might have to capture them, but that was not the end of it. Unlike other criminals there was something more, ands he felt would always be. It needed time and hope to fuel it, the compassion to give it the truth – truth which few could truly deny. More than international security was at stake. Freedom and all it symbolised; the freedom to make a choice. And know that choice would always have a meaning. Everyone could make their choice. The final nature of which would reveal their true nature. Anyone's true nature could change.

The choice could be made: something which Bronwyn was sure Sly Cooper had already exhibited, more than once. Miss Puffin was wrong. If he chose it, there was always more to the thief than met the eye. There was the raccoon behind the mask. Someday he just needed to be able to come out; as his friends had revealed more than once too. So many in the world were more than they appeared - there was not just a raccoon beyond the mask, but an idea: an idea which to Bronwyn had never died.

She thought of her brother. She knew Winston would be fighting, always believing in justice and treasuring hope as she did. She was proud of her brother. Despite their terrible circumstance he had stood tall. Never had he backed down. He would fight to the very end. Bronwyn truly loved her brother. As he did to her – her heart felt warm inside. Love was hope. She privately noticed his gestures towards Carmelita. Always the gentleman he had been in his youth, and still was. This only made her adore him all the more. She hoped he was there, somewhere, bringing his message of hope to the poor people affected by these criminals. This latest case was his perfect chance to prove himself; fighting alongside his favourite fox. Whose love for he kept in the very bottom of his heart.

Although he already had, she knew he would make her proud. She looked forward to seeing him again. Privately, everyone at the French Interpol branch nursed for him a soft spot. She knew he would pull through. He would fight until he fell, never give up his hope and compassion. He would reach the journey's end: with everyone beside him. This she was sure of. Her brother, proving his true nature to the world, fighting for its freedom - she smiled; a passionate smile. This unwavering hope was freedom.

Thoughts of her brother flowing through her head, Bronwyn stared out over the cityscape of Paris. She could see the sign pointing to Le Chat Gris in the distance. Neyla smiled at her, chattering. Barkley grinned, the badger wrapping his left arm round her to keep her warm. Neyla smiled again, her eyes twinkling. But her thoughts remained hidden: her fingers caressed the strange metallic feather swaddled in her pocket. Keeping close together, blocking out the cold, the three of them strode onwards towards the glowing pink sign.  
Bronwyn had one last, slightly joking but still serious thought before she focused on the outline of the hotel: _one could certainly never say that working for Interpol was dull work _Thinking as her brother would have, which was of some comfort.

And as Neyla's Rolex struck 2:00, the bells of Notre Dame began to echo a low droning ring, a flock of pigeons lifting off in their wake.

**El Castillo Bar, México City, México: 6:42 AM.**

An anthropologist, and amateur psychologist in her spare time, Ruth Carlyle was an intelligent woman. At thirty-one, she had graduated with an honours degree from university five years ago. Now she trekked about the world, looking for hints to and remnants of ancient civilisations. From her father, the love of it ran in her blood. She had been to China, Jordan, Egypt, Greece, Italy and any other nation that proclaimed hints to pre-eminent civilisations. But she loved the Americas the most. Incas, Aztecs, and Olmecs – she had seen the lot. But now she was on the trail of something very special indeed.

Unfortunately, to find what she sought after, she had to come here: to this dusty and tumble-weed-ridden district of Mexico City. To the disreputable and infamous El Castillo bar, a joint where people drank booze all day and gambled away their earnings, a snare for many tourists. She had never drunk, because of her uncle. Thanks to the vile stuff he had ended up at the bottom of Lake Titicaca, partially due to an incompetent guide. It made her sad to think of it, but she dismissed the thought. If her research was right, she would uncover a valuable secret, a valuable _Maya_ secret.

But she needed information, and her contact could give her that. She needed what he had promised her before making the hike to Chichén Itzá, where she was sure the secrets could be unearthed. Her team, four men, came up behind her. One was a gecko, another was a pig. The other two were both Dobermans. All of the men looked tough, well muscled and strong. They didn't trust or like the place either; they wanted to protect their friend from any harm. Their contact had promised some invaluable information for a handsome sum; three-hundred pesos paid in cash. The man himself was rather shady, but she had to speak to him. Carlyle, her men watching her from behind, scanning the bar, looked for her contact.

She spotted him – he was sitting at a small table, upon which sat a melting wax candle and a half-full glass of gin. The goat smoked a thick cigar, which poked out from under a copious black moustache. He was thin as a rake, and weedy looking. His eyes darted around suspiciously, his fingers drumming nervously on the table. Carlyle looked straight cross the smoke-drenched room of El Castillo and caught his eye. With a simple gesture he waved her over. The brown tabby, her four men following behind, entered the bar. Incredibly the bar was thriving even at this hour of the morning; but then this was Mexico City - a place known for its drugs, alcohol and who knew what other activities.

The barman eyed the party as they entered. Rubbing a filthy glass with an even filthier dishcloth, he watched as they weaved between the tables and sat down with the goat. The goat looked up, acknowledged Carlyle's men with a curt nod, and then fixed his gaze on the tabby. One of the men slid some coins onto the table. The barman sidled over as the goat tucked the coins into his pocket – the rest would be payed later, after the information.

The barman, a fat lion with three chins, took the men's orders. He returned with four glasses, surprisingly clean, after which the gecko passed him some coins. The barman shoved the coins into his pocket and sidled away to serve another couple; a pair locked in a romantic embrace who had just sat down opposite Carlyle's party. The goat leaned in, extinguishing his cigar in the ashtray. Carlyle and her men leaned in with him. The goat breathed in, coughed, and took in a gulp of gin. The glass now a quarter full, he wiped his mouth and began to speak.

"Miss Ruth Carlyle I presume?" rasped the goat; his English was weighed down by a thick Latin-American accent. "I am Horatio Martinez; undercover liaison for various drug smuggling cartels across central and South America – I hail from Puerto Rico. I believe I have information that may be of service to you?"

He finished his glass of gin. Snapping his fingers in the air, the barman returned with a fresh glass; now some whisky. Martinez stared into it momentarily but looked intently at Carlyle and her men as she began to speak. She herself had a noticeable Canadian tongue.

"I am Ruth Carlyle," Carlyle said softly and carefully. "These are my associates who I have been assigned on this expedition." She gestured a hand towards each man.

The gecko eyed his glass and then shoved it across the table. A look of distaste crossed his mouth. After another few seconds the other three followed suit. None of them seemed to trust their beverages, watered-down as they were. The men acknowledged the gesture by each showing a brief nod to Martinez. The goat waved a hand and spoke again to Carlyle.

"I am in some danger here," Martinez whispered, flicking ashes from the ashtray. He glanced at two broad-shouldered men sitting by the bar. "I will require some identification before I give you what I have; there are men watching us right now who would kill for what I have. They are - how do I put it? Not pleased that I am turning this find over to you. Now that I have been found out, they will kill me on the spot as a traitor." He drummed his fingers nervously against his glass of whisky. His eyes darted over the bar.

"I can assure you Mr Martinez that I am who you think I am," said Carlyle. To prove her point she removed a navy-blue wallet from a pocket tucked within her blouse. She held it up, unfolded it, revealing a passport with her face photographed in the corner. Her great locks of brunette hair were undeniably distinctive; a look of relief appeared on Martinez' face.

"Now that I have proved my identity," said Carlyle, "I would like to proceed. Yes, you have information that interests me and my government greatly. We promise your secrets will be safe with us. Under my government you shall have protection. I know you must trust me greatly to hand over these secrets."

"But I would rather the Canadian government ended up with these secrets than some corrupt South American dictatorship," Martinez said. "I trust you to secure this for me. The only reason those chunks over at the bar haven't filled me with lead already is because they want to ensure I have what they're after. Like you, they want that information. They would kill for this prize, these thugs."

Martinez wagged his head slightly towards the two men at the bar. One was a lizard, the other a capuchin. The lizard slid his left hand into a pocket. Carlyle gulped; his grip seemed to be clenching at a gun of sorts.

"It is your choice," Martinez continued, "But I must warn you this will be treacherous; not an easy quest."

"Yes, I thought as much when you called me on the phone," Carlyle said. "In fact I myself have had a body guard ever since you promised to hand your secret to me. I thank you greatly for your co-operation. This will be of great interest to democratic nations and many more besides: an evolution of pre-Columbian society and its government; besides its many social intricacies." Carlyle paused for breath, her cheeks flushing with enthusiasm.

"How they separated the classes of true criminals and punishment: how this has built on and developed American and aspects of western society. Not only that, but this will be a further step in understanding the world's oldest family of master..." Martinez cut her off with a worried look. He pointed towards the bar. The final word was left hanging, all at the table except Martinez and Carlyle guessing what it was.

"Mr Martinez," Carlyle said in hoarse tones. "What's wrong? I promise you can trust me and my men – I would vouch for every one of them. Your information and you with it will be _safe _once we start the expedition. This will be of great benefit to your own and many countries. Especially, I feel where law and criminal psychology is concerned, separating the real monsters from not. I am interested to learn of this – you will have protection, I promise it." She briefly touched a hand to his wrist.

"It's not that," Martinez said, his voice shaking. "It's those two brutes." Both the capuchin and lizard were strolling nonchalantly but decisively towards their table. This worried Carlyle now she saw it.

The men were not smiling; their faces were hard and cold. Outside Carlyle heard the spitting rumble of a vehicle draw up outside the bar. In a moment they might be amidst a fight, one which they would have to escape - she had not quite realised how much others desired Martinez' secrets; and these men looked like they really would kill, for whatever reason they wanted what Martinez' treasure could lead to.

_These thugs look rather deadly for my taste, _thought Carlyle. The engine revved up again and stalled briefly. She saw a sand-crusted truck with a canvas-covered rear pull up outside El Castillo. _Uh oh, that's not a good sign. They really want whatever this is._

"I see them," Carlyle said to Martinez. "Who are they?"

"I do not know them personally, but I know who they work for," said Martinez. "I used to operate undercover for an infamous smuggling and counterfeit cartel based in the Yucatan." His eyes glanced at the truck pulled up outside El Castillo. Four men had clambered from the back and were lingering on the step – as if waiting for a signal.

"They, they are called the Santiago Cartel. They seek to make money and export their suspicious wares all over the civilised world. Cannabis, crystal meth – they do it all. And they are cunning, very cunning; since the thirty-two years they have operated only two members were apprehended by the authorities. They are deadly and clever."

The two men were only about six feet away, having stopped; lingering and watching. They were waiting for Martinez to reveal his prize. They were intimidating men, but Carlyle was not wholly afraid of them. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the barman sink behind the wooden bar. Apparently he expected a fight to break-out.

"Go on Mr Martinez," Carlyle prompted hurriedly. "Tell me about this cartel." The men were watching intently. Their fellows outside had just entered the bar, the wooden doors swinging ominously behind them. All of them groped for leather holsters.

"Well," gulped Martinez, "They are so called because their leader is of Chilean birth. He set up his own smuggling operation which eventually expanded to both Americas. He now has partners all over the world – every major criminal gang is interested in him: in recent years, most noticeably, The Fiendish Five for instance."

Carlyle stifled a gasp – The Fiendish Five. That name meant something to her. In her research on criminal psychology she had come across the name multiple times. Especially where another famous lineage of crooks was concerned – a very unusual and honourable lineage: although it was an amateur hobby, she had discovered a lot. It was largely for these reasons that Carlyle was here right now.

She wanted to understand the greater and deepest workings of this lineage. And Martinez possessed a valuable, ancient piece of information that could help her. But now she had to stop these thugs getting hold of it, whatever their purpose or intention happened to be. _I must protect this secret; they cannot get their hands on it.  
_  
"I will help you Mr Martinez," said Carlyle. "I am determined they must not get the treasure, the secret you possess. I dread to think what they would do with it."

"Thank you," Martinez whispered, "But we must hurry. They will kill all of us for this secret. Here in México, with a corrupt government, they could get away with it too. I want nothing to do with these criminal any more. I must help the law all I can. There are far better things in this world than deceiving and killing for your own benefit. I must finish my story, and then I will show you my secret. Be ready for flight." He shivered under the thug's gaze.

"Please tell us," Carlyle said slowly. "We are ready for these brutes." She knew that all four of her men had their own weapons concealed under their jackets. If necessary they could fight their way out. They could protect the precious secret Martinez had.

"Right," Martinez said. "The leader of the Santiago Cartel is called Louis Alberto Santiago. He changed his last name, which I know not, to be synonymous with his birth place. I only know that he is a pangolin, with precious little physical knowledge of him. I only glimpsed him once in the time I penetrated the Santiago Cartel. He is deadly, cold and utterly merciless. He would shoot a man without a second thought. He is not to be crossed; only the bravest man would confront Santiago. Hence, the Santiago Cartel is now number two in the world's most infamous criminal organisations: second only to The Fiendish Five and in front of the equally well-known KLAWW Gang."

"So, of course," said Carlyle, "They are so cunning that they are never caught. Their deadly reputations have kept them safe from the authorities. As they would know very well, we cannot sacrifice noble officer's lives wilfully to try and bring them down. They would think they have the free world over a barrel. But there are those who will stand up to these monsters; and will do just that."

"An admirable ideal, Miss Carlyle," said Martinez. The two men were beginning to look impatient with the proceedings. The foursome from the truck had now taken positions three tables away. Time was running out.

"I have one last piece of information for you," Martinez gulped. "The Santiago Cartel finances its operations through forgery and illicit gambling parlours and sleazy nightclubs. They also use fraud and intimidation to gain their funds. In 2007 alone a bank in Zurich registered over three-billion dollars in an account linked directly to Louis Santiago himself. In the previous three months money had come in from multiple accounts; most noticeably that of a Mr Bruce Muggshot. His casinos the world over have become very friendly with Santiago. Yet the authorities have never caught either of them; both men are just too cunning, conniving and clever." He coughed and hurriedly resumed, watching the capuchin draw an enormous, old-fashioned looking revolver. The barrel clicked as he cocked back the hammer.

"The police have tried several times without success. These lords need to be approached with a careful strategy. They are ruthless and, above all, selfish. They will do anything to gain what they want. This is why I appeal to you – I want out and fast. Otherwise I am a dead man." His pleaded to Carlyle; he was being truthful undoubtedly. She would help him. In those eyes she could see scared man – a man who feared being killed. She would not let them kill Horatio Martinez. Her sympathy overrode any other feelings – she had hope.  
"Thank you for telling me this," said Carlyle. "Now, could you show me what you have? Me men are ready should the cartel come in to get us." She slipped the lizard and capuchin a defiant look. They appeared taken aback – who was this bold Canadian girl?

"I have it here," said Martinez, hoisting a dirty canvas sack onto the table. The men eyed it greedily; clearly this was what they wanted. They were just waiting now, waiting to see what it was. Incredibly none of the other patrons except the barman had noticed a thing: maybe this was just normal everyday behaviour here in Mexico City.

"But one final thing," Martinez gabbled. He clutched the sack, his knuckles whitening to the bone. "While stationed in the Yucatan I was posted to an excavation site; a Mayan shrine of some sort. Santiago and his men were pillaging it for treasures: any artefact they could sell on the black market just to fund their operations. Filthy, disgusting men; they desecrated the shrine in its entirety." He gulped again.

"As such, with their infamous reputation, they were not snagged by the authorities. More likely the government deliberately ignored this one so as not to displease Santiago. One president was killed personally be Santiago after she defied his gangs here in Mexico City. Besides, to a corrupt government, these gangs can be valuable. Likely some of our dear officials have been accepting shipments of cocaine and other garbage for their own years for years - who really knows?"

"Yes," Carlyle said. "These criminals are very clever indeed. They cover their tracks and often leave little or no evidence. Either that or they have contacts that can be relied upon to cover up for them. It is often difficult to simply obtain evidence which would otherwise bring them down. We have to send our men directly into their operations and lairs to gain that evidence: which is exactly what they want at times. So these big mobsters are often the trickiest of all to apprehend."

"Exactly," Martinez replied. "That is why I am telling you all this. But I must really hurry now. We need to get out of this place and away from Mexico City."

The lizard unbuttoned his tattered leather vest and revealed a string of bullets slung over his right shoulder. He loaded his revolver and clicked it into place. They were getting ready for the kill. _So this was why Carlyle had needed a bodyguard. These gangsters and thugs were out to kill her for what she might know. _And nothing was going to stop them: together they must defy the gangsters - the only way to save Martinez' valuable secret.

"As I was saying," said Martinez, "The Santiago Cartel was pillaging this shrine for wealth they could sell and sue to bolster their reputation. At the time Santiago was unaware of my intentions to defect and become an informer to your government. Otherwise he would have killed me. I saw what these men were doing and realised it must end. Ancient relics of a priceless nature being used for purely criminal purpose! I decided to discover more about this shrine, see what I could save. So I lead some of Santiago's men inside and we found a few small oddities; vases, jars, clay pots and a little bit of gold or jewels; nothing too spectacular. Whatever was in there, though, Santiago's men took – the lot of it. They couldn't care less." He rubbed his knuckles on his grimy jacket.

"While they left to show Santiago our small but precious findings I stayed behind and examined the chamber. I was ignorant and knew very little. But I find this particular mural interesting. One stone tablet inserted in the mural, about a foot by a foot, seemed out of place. I dated it to be about fifty years younger than the rest of the shrine. It had not originally been there; someone had slotted it there after the shrine's construction. Naturally I was curious and looked it over closely. It was very different to the other tablets: it seemed to entail the beginning of some legend or story, but was cut off. It intrigued me, so I carefully removed it to study later on. I forgot about making money and became interested in delving further about this Mayan culture. At that moment I truly ceased being the criminal that I was and decided to turn my findings over to the law. I had had enough of being a vile and true criminal like Santiago. I began to understand the tablet I had found came from another site, possibly on the Yucatan. It was also at that moment I realised Santiago must not have it; I don't know why. My mind just told me he must not get it." There was a slight, pregnant pause, Carlyle and her men hanging on Martinez' words.

"Anyway, that night, I snuck out of our camp. Santiago and his men were asleep, so I stole one of our riverboats and made my way to Mexico City. From there I set about contacting a government I could trust and I found you. But I knew Santiago was angry – as soon as he discovered the tablet gone he realised it was me. He must have had his suspicions. His men recounted the description of the tablet when we entered the chamber. When Santiago became aware of what I had stolen he was livid. And right from under his nose. He ordered I be labelled a traitor and killed on sight once they secured the tablet. I knew then I had very limited time. Santiago wanted that tablet and I now know why." He gave a grim look.

"He had been very interested in rival lineages of crooks and clans of thieves. Something about this tablet was familiar to him – he knew that once he possessed it and returned with it to its original site, he would know its secrets. Secrets which he must not be allowed to obtain: whoever hid that tablet didn't want someone like him unlocking its secrets. It must be protected. Santiago wants it for one purpose and one purpose alone: to make himself the richest, most powerful and artful criminal in the free world. Whether rival gangs like The Fiendish Five will let him become so I don't know. But he must not get it. He knew what that tablet was and what it could bring him. He researched long and hard to determine the secrets it could tell." The goat shuddered and accidently knocked the ashtray to the floor.

"And that's what scares me; he must want it very badly. He would, as these men will try to do, kill in cold blood to get it. And that I have endeavoured to stop him doing ever since I escaped from that shrine. I want to end Santiago's reign of terror and secure this treasure. I know you can help me. We must secure its secrets before he kills anyone else to get it. But he will try to kill us, follow us every step of the way. We must defy him, not let him win. I hope you are with me, because I trust you. We cannot let him win this prize. I fear, although I do not entirely know its secrets, the consequences will be too great. Please, are you with me?"

"All the way Mr Martinez," stammered Carlyle. She was fairly stunned: she had thought this man just some shady customer who worked on both sides. But she had been wrong; he needed help. He had gone to great lengths to protect this tablet thing he spoke of. He had trusted her, told his story, now she would trust him. They could work together. If Santiago wanted that tablet, eh would have a real fight trying to get it.

"Hurry," said Martinez, "We have little to no time. What is your answer?"

"Not only are we with you, but we will help you," said Carlyle. "I have already promised that and I intend to keep that promise. You will self protection and aid from my government and many others. We will bring down Santiago, at least if I can help it. There are greater things at steak her than some know." _Like those secrets I have yet to plunder about this master lineage of thieves, _Carlyle thought, completing her earlier sentence. _A line of thieves who seems more than this character Santiago will ever be. Whether any of them is alive now, they can rely on me to protect their secrets. There is far more than meets the eye here. _Then she was roused from her reverie by a nervous shout.

"Ruth," Martinez said into her ear, using her first name, "I must show you this now. This is what we must protect and why we are all here now and Santiago's men are outside that door." He pushed the canvas sack into the centre of the table.

"You don't mean that's..." Carlyle whispered, trailing off.

"That's exactly what I mean," Martinez whispered back. "This is the tablet itself."

He grabbed the fabric of the sack and flicked it away. Carlyle gasped, hand to her mouth: within the sack was a beautifully ornate carved tablet. It was made out of pink granite and featured several exotic characters and symbols, cut off at the right-hand side. A noticeable feature was the figure of an anthropomorphic raccoon in the top left corner. It was more beautiful than Carlyle had imagined. She noticed what Martinez had said was true: it seemed like it had been sectioned off and hidden away, meant to be joined to a larger mural to complete its story. The frieze was amazing, unique. Martinez stared into space briefly.

Maybe there were many others like it at its original site. Whoever had hidden it knew greedy men and women would want its secrets. It must tell of great legends and secrets even Carlyle couldn't guess of. Judging by the workmanship she guessed where it came from: Chichén Itzá, the ancient Mayan citadel. And they must get there before Santiago did. But first they would have to through him off the track. So that meant getting out of El Castillo and away from Mexico City. This was a job for Ruth Carlyle alright. A job that once she had completed, she must return to the safety of the free world's governments. _The UN, _she thought,_ they must see this. Then maybe we can finish off Santiago once and for all._

Carlyle had the time to translate just one word on the tablet, as she had learnt ancient Indian dialects back in university. It was a strange character, one which she had never seen before. But if she had a sound enough knowledge, it said this: Cooper. It was a name and not a simple word. Carlyle was shocked: this tablet undoubtedly led to secrets even greater than she had thought before. She would protect it at all costs.

Suddenly, she heard a shout behind her.

"Down," screamed one of the Doberman, whose name was Douglas Miles. Miles swung his arms around Carlyle and they thudded to the ground. The other three men and Martinez hit the ground beside them. El Castillo had just turned into a nightmare.

"It's the Santiago Cartel alright," screamed Martinez into Carlyle's ear.

The lizard and the capuchin had opened fire as soon as they had seen the tablet. So engrossed had Carlyle been that time had seemed to freeze. Now their bullets tore the bar apart like it was nothing more than matchsticks - the other patrons hollered and screamed, running for the open doors. Luckily they all made it outside and feel onto the street. Then the mass of people jumped up and ran as El Castillo was turned into a Swiss cheese.

The lizard's revolver ran dry and he tossed it aside. The four men on the other side of the room advanced, one of them tossing the lizard a snub-nosed automatic machine gun. Everyone in Carlyle's party swallowed hard: they were surrounded. The barman leapt up and scurried out a backdoor. He stopped just long enough to grab a bottle of whisky on his way out. But the thugs ignored the fat lion.

The four men from the truck all were armed with semi-automatic weapons and rained fire on Carlyle's party, who shoved over a thick wooden table and ducked behind it. They huddled there, using it as a barricade to the advancing wall of bullets and men. All of them had been horrified at the looks in the men's eyes: utterly cold and merciless. Their master wanted that tablet and they would never stop hunting them until they had it. Carlyle's group had to think of a way to escape. Just then they heard a wonderful sound.  
There was an irritated yelp and the sound of three weapons clicking. Martinez peered over their barricade and saw that three men had run out of ammo. The last had jammed his gun. Maybe they had a chance to retaliate. But then they heard another sound.

A second vehicle pulled up outside the shattered entrance to El Castillo and ground to a halt. A thud sounded as the passenger door opened and someone stepped down onto sand. The newcomer came around the side of the truck and stood in the entrance, framed by sunlight. He spoke to the men inside the bar, who snapped to attention at his arrival.  
"Have you found Martinez?" said a thickly-laden Spanish accent. 'Skin that traitorous goat alive and bring me that tablet. Then bring me his body – I want to gloat over my victory with that piteous fool. Kill the others and leave him for last: I want him to watch every moment and know what he has done. Done in trying to stop me from getting what I want. I will cause him pain." He laughed a deep barking laugh that sounded utterly terrifying.

"Yes sir," said one of the men. "There are five others with him, all Canadians sir. They have the tablet."

''Canadian huh?" said the thick Spanish voice, "That poor fool. Kill them all and bring Martinez and the tablet to me. Leave no one alive." He barked a laugh again.

"Yes sir," replied the henchman with renewed vigour. "Okay boys, prepare to reload and open fire." Several weapons began to click. "Okay you scum; if you don't come out we'll blast you to pieces. Heck, we'll blast you to pieces even if you do come out. Prepare to meet your maker you noble imbeciles." He said the last word awkwardly; as if he could not quiet get his tongue around it.

A line of rapid fire strafed the table and forced the heroes to duck behind it once more. The wood was tough and thick but wouldn't hold forever. They needed a way out.

"Oh no," groaned Martinez, "I know that voice." He peeped up again and hastily retreated, followed by gunfire. He nodded grimly. Carlyle's blood ran cold at his look. He looked like a man resigned to a fight he probably wouldn't win: but not if she could help it.

"It's as I feared, said Martinez.

"What do you mean?" said Carlyle.

"It's him," whispered Martinez, 'He has come personally to secure the tablets."

"Damn it," said Carlyle, "I was hoping we might outrun him. What must we do?"

"Fight," Martinez stated simply, "It's our only way out now. I will not have any one here die because of that man. He will not get this tablet. We must fight – together." He clutched the canvas sack, in which he had again wrapped the pink granite tablet.

"Okay, let's show this Santiago guy what we're made of," said Carlyle, over the chatter of gunfire. "Fight it is then. I just hope the authorities here may arrive soon enough to help us out. This guy is obviously a really dangerous character." She nudged Miles and he signalled to the other men. The gecko, pig and second Doberman all drew semi-automatic weapons. Now they had to fight their way out, but without killing anyone if they could.

"The authorities may arrive soon enough," whispered Martinez, clutching the sack. "But we can only hope. Hope, for one thing, that the authorities around here aren't as corrupt as Santiago – another problem for us. Maybe they would take a bribe or two. But who knows - don't give up hope." In the short time Carlyle had known him; the goat had become a changed man. There was something of magnitude in that. It made her admire him. She would have to ensure he wasn't blown to pieces before he could be commended.

Carlyle glanced over the table at the figure blanketed by sunlight in the doorway. She couldn't see much but she could see enough. The light glinted off a hard shell-like skin: that of pangolin. He wore a massive fedora hat and knee-high boots. A belt slung at his waist provided holsters for three pistols. There was no ammunition in sight but he was adorned in black-leather clothing.

He looked mean and deadly: and then he stepped into the bar. It was only a few steps, but it was enough. Carlyle saw an ugly scar that ran from the top right corner of his forehead down to the bottom left. Although Martinez had not known this detail in his description, it was unmistakable. She had never seen a scar like that before. It could belong to only one man – one foul king of crime.

Louis Alberto Santiago had come to collect his prize personally. Another threat had come for the free world. Santiago was just one of millions of true criminals in the underworld of organised crime. But now his hungering greed and desire had become a greater threat. He must be stopped – Santiago was going to do anything and everything for what he wanted.  
And thousands of miles away, Sly Cooper could only keep on fighting to protect his family – fight for and protect innocent people at heart -, unaware of what was now happening in Mexico. What it had to do with his mission. The fact that a long-lost branch of his family clan was about to reveal itself. And one woman would fight to protect the true values of this clan. Sly Cooper – indeed his clan and friends were never and would never be like Santiago.

He would know in the future, even if he could not now. Besides himself and those who were close to him, those he loved, someone else in the world was upholding – believing in the Cooper values. Comfort could be taken in that for Sly and his friends: something to encourage the heart in the darkest moments for all who really cared.  
But like Carlyle, Interpol, and many other brave, courageous people, he would continue fighting. Because what he fought for truly had meaning.

Because in the end he had a true purpose to protect: that made all the difference.

**Within Raleigh's Lair, the Isle of Wrath, the Welsh Triangle: 1:47 AM.**

The walrus continued to sit on Sly, pressing down on his body. The raccoon almost felt the brute's flesh putting pressure on his body through the blue nylon and tweed of his overalls. Hardly able to breath, Sly noticed the Binoc-u-Com lying where it had been flung earlier. The device was humming but otherwise silent: the master thief could not reach it, trapped as he was under the walrus' rear end. The fingers of his right hand scrabbled about a metre away from the device. Sly groaned in frustration; then the walrus pushed down again.

Sly gasped and exhaled a puff of air. The walrus laughed and continued to sit on Sly. Sly guessed full well that the walrus was attempting to detain him until Raleigh could deal with him. But time was short and Sly could not waste it – Carmelita was nearing with Interpol. She also had Bentley and Murray with her. They were perfectly safe, but they would all need to get out of here. It was none of their destinies to be captured by Carmelita just yet. Not permanently anyway. Sly had things he wanted to achieve as a thief. As did Bentley and Murray: Sly's time with the Inspector would come later. For now he could hint of the hope: at the end of it all the trust he was sure she had, the love and belief for, had not been misplaced.

Carmelita's last communication over the Binoc-u-Com had touched Sly. He could sense it flickering beneath her voice: she kept some degree of affection for him. She seemed to care what actually happened to him. That's what Sly liked about Carmelita – she was not a shallow person. She had character and fire, which he liked. Thanks to that strength of character she was here now. She was here now to see him and Raleigh captured; doing her duty. But Sly liked that. The girl he had seen that night at the Paris Opera was a true hero: she never gave up in hoping, fighting for goodness. She took strength in her courage and persisted in belief. As a master thief Sly could easily admire that trait. It had taken some courage to get her this far.

Sly would never let her down, that courage would not be wasted; when the time needed him to be - and in the end when it was right, he would be there. He had liked Carmelita from the start because she had compassion, maintained while she faced so many obstacles. He did not yet know the full extent of these. Maybe one day she would share these secrets with him: he hoped she could one day. That trust and belief would mean a bond, like that of love he shared with Bentley and Murray. That would be his final and greatest treasure as a thief. For now they had this relationship, but Sly treasured that too.

It was a part of their lives and he would play it out as he felt it should be done – never forgetting the Cooper values his father had once told him, bouncing on his knee. To love and ultimately fight for others, not your singular gain. Carmelita could just see that in him, which he would reveal to her fully when it was meant to be, his true nature. Sly had always liked Carmelita because she was truthful and courageous: showing it because she always turned up, never giving in on Sly. She had not allowed obstacles to overcome her. She could see something similar in him.

Sly would keep that alive, for it was there. It was highly likely they would never have met, he would not have done what he did, she would not have acted as she had, if it was someday meant to be: back on that stage one night in the Paris Opera House. Carmelita had been the true leading lady of the show. Sly smiled and had hope – since that night Carmelita had never truly given up hope on the thief. And so Sly and the gang would never give up on this either, on so many things, for there was reason to have hope. Although he never had stopped, Sly would keep hoping, unlike his enemies. He would hope for love and the true freedom that came with it; what he felt was true to his heart.

Sly also knew one thing for sure: he never could or would want to truly hurt Carmelita. They might get snippy at each other, arguing as they did, but there were never intentions of malice behind this. Sly thought he was truly lucky to be chased by someone like Carmelita. She was even prettier when she was angry. Of course, to Sly, she had always been beautiful. Not just on the outside either: with Carmelita Sly knew that what was inside was always as important and even more so - another reason why he had his secret love for the fox. A love which would really set him and his friends apart as the thieves they were.

They had always cared and loved, ever since they had met, and the Cooper Gang had been formed under the big old oak tree outside the school house at Happy Camper orphanage. Their unwavering compassion had set them apart from the very beginning; something Sly was sure Carmelita had not missed, even if she had trouble admitting it, the first time she saw the raccoon on that stage.

She had proved without doubt that she was the hero Sly had thought. Maybe she would catch Sly someday: but until that time she could take comfort in knowing that, in her turn, she had captured the heart of a thief. When the red fox had seen Sly that night, following the escapade of the Diva Diamond, her life was changed forever – them both.  
The walrus growled and bounced up-and-down on top of Sly's lean body. After a few more seconds of this absurd amusement, he yawned, stifled this with a hand like a dust bin lid, and burrowed into a pocket. He pulled out a short-wave radio unit. Sly issued what would have been an audible gasp, but was stifled by the walrus' left buttock.

_Oh great, _Sly thought; _now this guy is going to call up the boss himself. We don't need to make things more difficult than they have to be, do we? I have had enough of this: we Coopers are thieves of action. By the time more goons come, I'll be out of here. I'm not going to let one walrus be the death of my friends and family. I'll try my hardest as long as I am breathing – difficult with this guy on me – and now to show him that._

Sly's cane was trapped beneath him, where he could not use it. The golden crook was pushing into his back. This reminded him of his plan to rest The Diva Diamond from Madame Pachyderma Tuskaninny, the most famous opera singer in France. The elephant had acquired the rare pink gem in questionable circumstances and Sly had planned to swipe it. Then he could show her that stealing someone else's treasure to boost your own image, parading around with it on your neck, was not an honourable thing.

As any proper master thief knew, the things you stole were trophies but not to lord yourself over others. He or she who did that was not a master, but a pompous prat. It was thanks to these kinds of people that master criminals and selfish billionaires were ruining decent people and able to cause all this misery in the world. Sly would not have that: a master thief did not take this lying down - nor did a devoted police inspector. So the clever raccoon had snuck into the Paris Opera House, only to find Inspector Barkley, with a steaming Tuskaninny beside him, berating Carmelita about the consequences of losing the diamond.

This occasion brought Sly's first caper with Miss Fox to mind because she herself had been in a tight squeeze. Inspector Barkley was losing his cool because the traitorous stage manager Pierre Reno had made off with the Madame's precious diamond necklace. However, the Madame had trusted Reno with managing her show and has no idea he would nab the valuable jewel. So Sly had apprehended the treacherous aardvark and returned the diamond in a special 'care package', especially for Carmelita. He had decided not to steal it after all: he recognised that there were often better things than stealing, stealing a big, pink diamond.

He had taken away Carmelita's affections that night, and the long-standing relationship that connected them after, instead of the necklace. He hadn't wanted to get her in trouble: in any case, Madame Tuskaninny could stew in her guilt a little time. The raccoon left it her choice to be a decent person, in many ways more of a punishment than actually taking the diamond. Carmelita had then proven to Barkley she had what it took to run the department. She had been promoted to his second-in-command; Sly, just eighteen, Carmelita twenty-one.

And someday, when the badger did retire, she would run the head office of Interpol's French branch in his place. She deserved it – Sly was glad of his decision. That well-deserved recognition had given the beautiful fox her courage, made her able to believe in herself. For that Sly was willing to give up a diamond any day. In the back of his mind, he hoped that Barkley was okay himself. He remembered Raleigh's announcement, his angered failure to kill the short and cigar-chomping badger – Barkley was actually giving it up now.  
But if Sly Cooper knew Interpol, he would be staying round to beat these criminals into cells at Heathrow Penitentiary. He was a tough old guy, and Sly kind of liked him, even if he was a little grumpy. After all, he had the same interests as Sly at heart. Sly hoped they all got through it alive, the Coopers, Bentley, Murray Carmelita and Interpol alike. They had the same goal at heart. Sly had stolen something far more valuable than a diamond that night.

#

At this exact moment, as Sly was thinking it, prisoner 2124 of cell block B at Heathrow Penitentiary was writing by the light of a standard-lamp in a square-shaped cell. He was only a few hundred kilometres from Sly Cooper, but he could not know it. The inmates at Heathrow didn't get to hear much of the news. His pen scratched feverishly across the page, writing the letter. Then he grabbed up the paper and jammed it into a glass bottle. A bottle he had swiped while on kitchen duty.

He didn't care that he himself was in prison, he just needed to find Connor's son. This was his seventeenth letter. He had been trying for twelve years now. Quickly he reached trough the barred window of his cell and tied the bottle to the leg of a pigeon waiting outside. The pigeon warbled, blinked, and then flew away into the night. Prisoner 2124 watched it go; then returned to his table. He flicked off the lamp and eased himself onto his cardboard-like mattress. He could not know how much time he had left. The third member of the old gang was out there somewhere. He valued the trust his old friend – the raccoon, now dead – had placed in him to watch his son.

Prisoner 2124 glanced at the tattoo of a certain building in Italy stencilled on his left palm. He hoped the boy was alive and well; he was a decent kid. He must know of his father's great secret. He was the last of the bloodline; he had a right to know. As far as he knew, the boy still lived somewhere in Paris, where he had been born and raised.

Prisoner 2124 hoped that this time, or at least some time, he would succeed in finding Connor's son.

#

Inspector Carmelita Montoya Fox was still walking, Winthrop by her side – Bentley, Murray and her other comrades behind – headed for Sir Eric Winchester Raleigh's boat. She was determined, had the courage that she would get there. She had herself one thought at this time. Of course, she was thinking about Sly, trying to penetrate that outer shell. She would someday, she would understand him. But the one thought was this: how lucky she was, they all were. How lucky she really was to be here, to be able to actually fight and stand up for her beliefs. That was a privilege beyond reckoning, as police and thieves here tonight thought alike. She was determined not to forget that. To the absolute credit of the brave, courageous girl, she had not or ever would forget.

_No crackpot villain will harm my thief._

_#_

Sly Cooper, fledging master thief, wriggled madly so as to reach the cane pressing into his back. The sharper end of the crook now pushed in between his shoulder blades. That felt a little awkward at least. The walrus squirmed on top of him again, squeezing his lungs further and rumpling his tunic. The radio in the walrus' fist crackled with static, and then suddenly came to life. The walrus sighed in contentment and raised it to his lips, ready to answer his superior. Sly could just hear the banging of Aqualon and his men, still trying to break through his barricade – it echoed around the cavernous chamber, magnified to a distorted rumbling. He must act swiftly; this was his chance.

While the walrus was distracted, Sly twisted his left arm downwards and slid it under his left shoulder blade. Feeling with his finger tips, Sly scratched his hand along the wooden planks until he grasped the cane's handle. The walrus had eased up slightly when he made to answer the call. That gave Sly just enough room to move his arms and that was all he needed. The radio hummed and then a voice came to life. Sly withdrew the cane from behind him, ready to strike at the right moment.

"What do you have to report, watchman 86?" asked a scratchy voice on the radio – not the croaking, vain tone of Sir Raleigh the frog.

"The master will be placed," said watchman 86. "I have apprehended an intruder in the ship containment bay."

"Excellent work, watchman 86," said the voice with relish. "Have you captured the master's nemesis, that bane of a raccoon Sly Cooper?"

"Yes, this is said thief," watchman 86 replied. "I have him detained right here."

"Good, good – fantastic," said the scratchy voice. "Keep him there until someone comes. The master still has to deal with the Interpol contingent. Then he will finish of the infamous Sly Cooper!" He laughed a wheezy laugh.

"I'm on it," the walrus said. "It's my pleasure to squish this impudent boy. We will have our victory yet, unlike that foolish General Aqualon. I bet he has learned his lesson."  
"Sorry guys," said Sly suddenly. "I'm afraid that I have to break up this party. I don't plan to be here all night. And I won't be waiting for your master either. He needs someone to stand up to him at last – and I am going to do just that."

_Boy, they'll be sorry when Carmelita_ _gets here_, thought Sly to himself. _What an inspiration she is. There should be more like her in the world – what a girl. She is a true hero, and I know she will not be afraid to stand up to these goons either. They really need to be shown that. _The hearts in Sly's eyes burst as the walrus' ugly mug appeared.

"Shut up thief," he roared, spitting. "You're staying right here with me." He waved the radio in his hand as if to make the point.

"Sorry dear chap," Sly said, rolling his eyes at the guard's slowness, "But you will not be keeping me here. There is too much at stake." Then he moved.

Like a dart Sly swung the cane out and snagged the radio. The walrus bellowed and it arced across the room and clattered to the deck: it lay about seven feet from the Binoc-u-Com. The scratchy voice crackled again, screaming a cacophony of syllables.

"Watchman 86," said the voice, "What in her majesty's name is going on out there?"

"The thief is escaping," roared watchman 86. "But I'll get him good."

"Don't fail," screamed the radio, "Detain that raccoon at all costs."  
_  
_"That won't be happening," said Sly coolly, "We master thieves don't stick around."

Sly swung his arm back and launched the cane from his grip. It spiralled over the deck and smacked into the radio. The small metal device bounced off of the deck and plunged into the water next to it - as the radio went down Sly heard the voice fading behind a distorted gurgling sound.

"Curse you Sly Cooper," the scratchy voice yelled. "I promise you that Sir Raleigh will finish you – and Interpol and yours friends..." At last the radio sank with a gurgle and the voice was deadened. Watchman 86 gawked in surprise.

"Just one raccoon has done all of this?" he squealed. "How can that be possible?"

"Not the first time that question has been asked," Sly quipped. He remembered Carmelita saying that very thing many times when she had confronted Sly. Such nice conversations the two of them had – one of the only times Sly saw Carmelita's other side. The one that felt the love for Sly as well as her sense of justice: she had the strength never to abandon any of her great qualities.

Sly rolled over and the walrus hollered. The brute tumbled off of Sly Cooper and slammed onto the deck. Adept at thinking on his feet, Sly – free of his confines – leapt up and faced the walrus. Rubbing his face and eyes, the guard lumbered towards Sly, arms outstretched. The raccoon just ducked aside and rolled again. Recalling the dive-roll of Helen Eliza Cooper, his Irish ancestor, Sly arrived at his cane and grabbed it up. The walrus raced head-on for him. Sly had just enough time to scoop up the Binoc-u-Com on his way as he too charged.

But they never met. Sly crouched and lunged over the walrus' broad shoulders. The cane was grasped firmly between both hands as he raised it in mid-air: although it was all over in a split-second, time seemed to slow down momentarily.

"I'm sorry about this," said Sly, feeling for the deluded walrus; deluded and used by his master. "But maybe, next time, you can make the sensible choice."

The cane sliced through the air and walloped watchman 86 in the back of the head. It was only just hard enough that the blow knocked him out. Sly had never wanted to kill his opponents. The walrus toppled over and landed face down on the wooden deck. Sly alighted behind his prostrate figure. He was out cold and begging to snore loudly. Sly's work here was done. He turned about and faced the inner section of the great chamber. He saw the levels and gantries, pipes lining the walls. The vault he had spied rested atop this complex sat on a platform jutting out over the water, about five metres up. That was his goal now, then on to Sir Raleigh and his storm machine, making sure to retrieve all of the pages belonging to his family's book – The Thievious Raccoonus - on the way.

Without much difficulty, Sly ascended the stairs and decking constructed atop a half-sunken galleon. He shimmied along a moist length of rope – cane in his mouth, hand over hand – until he reached the crow's nest. The rope gleamed with the familiar blue sparks of his thief's instinct. He reached out with the cane and snagged another rope, again sparkling blue. He hoisted himself onto it and wriggled along it until he could climb onto the gantry. He was now about four metres up from the sight of his tangle with watchman 86. The walrus still lay there, asleep.

Sly ran up another flight of stairs, along another gantry, until he reached the platform where the vault sat. Three paths branched off to different portals in the chamber's walls. He would take those after he had penetrated the vault. Sly took the scraps of papyrus he had found in the clue bottles and lay them down before him. He took out the Binoc-u-Com: he needed Bentley's assistance again. Hopefully the box turtle was still able to provide it. This would probably be there final communication until they left Raleigh's lair.

Sly thought he was very fortunate to have Bentley's brains: the British turtle had always been the smart one. His savvy and technological know-how had been invaluable. He had learnt to speak French so fast it had been astounding. Sly also knew there was a bit of something Scottish in him too; he was rather colourful. Murray had been slower learning, but got there in the end. He had come from eastern Australia, though he had picked up something of an American accent. Murray had been schooled at the small primary school on Lord Howe Island, where he had lived in his early childhood – later, the little schoolhouse at Happy Camper. His parents had had a bit of money from racing and had bought a bungalow there.

Funnily enough he had ended up in Paris when his parents were travelling Europe to race. Travelling through the Loire Valley was where the bomb accident had occurred: landing Murray straight in Happy Camper in the west of Paris. Where all of them had met for the first time due to occasionally, at least with Bentley, unknown circumstance; maybe they could go back to Lord Howe sometime, let Murray see the place of his youth. The hippo was gutsy and tough. Even through all of this he had come out a better person, despite their histories. Sly always knew they were lucky to have each other; the love for others as well as themselves.

Placing the Binoc-u-com to his eyes, Sly saw that Bentley had appeared in the left view screen. He sighed with relief. The box turtle was always very reliable. But he also doubted that Carmelita had tried to hinder him under these circumstances. Bentley spoke swiftly to Sly, who appeared in the right view screen.

"What's the trouble Sly?" said Bentley in a concerned tone.

"I just found another vault Bentley," said Sly. "I'll need your assistance again to help me crack it. Once you remind me again of that code scripting think Raleigh uses, I think I can manage. The guards here said you were nearing with Interpol, and I know you'll probably need to extricate yourself. Carmelita won't be pleased, but that is the way of it unfortunately – for now. I know that I can rely on your tact and gentlemanliness Bentley."

"Well – thankyou Sly," said Bentley, blushing. "I must admit this will likely be our last communication until you have bested Raleigh. Murray and I will meet up with you somehow. Until then, I can crack that code for you." He paused, thinking for a second. 'By the way, that terminology you're looking for is called 'code-encryption algorithm'. It sounds complicated, but I can get it for you. Best of luck Sly – we know your skills will get you out of there. We're all thinking of you – including, I think, a certain fox here. I think she really does have a soft spot for you."

"Oh, she really is something else is she not," said Sly, "Always so determined and brave, courageous. That fiery temper of hers will never be anyone else's. We're not about to let Gorgeous down. I would never hurt Carmelita. Ah, I always look forward to seeing her." He sighed and stared off into space.

"Now don't go and get cheeky on me Sly," Bentley said in an admonishing manner. "Now's not the time for your curious romance. You'll see Miss Fox soon enough, don't worry about that: now's the time for that code."

"Right you are Bentley," said Sly. "I won't forget your wise words, and Carm's admirable personality, but a thief and his skills never get rusty."

"That's because you're not a metallic compound susceptible to corrosion when exposed to mixtures of oxygen and H2O," quipped Bentley. "That's, err, a science joke Sly."  
"Better stick to the tech know-how," said Sly with a loving grin on his face. Bentley was often so serious that his humour came across as a bit awkward – Sly liked his friend for that. "Oh, and the code would be great about now!"

"Right," Bentley said, "Give me those combinations and I will have it in a jiffy."

Sly scooped up his collection of papyrus; the kind he had seen spilling from the treasure chests on the wrecked ships; and passed each scrap ahead of the Binoc-u-Com. Bentley disappeared for a minute or two, presumably condensing the algorithm and making his mathematical calculations on a notepad: having not the van's complex computer system at hand. When Sly had entered all of the numerical combinations he stood and waited patiently for Bentley to complete his decrypting of the enigma. Bentley appeared back in the left view screen after about two minutes and issued a relieved sigh.

'Here it is Sly," said Bentley. "It took a bit of extra work on paper, but I managed it. The combination you are looking for is 6 – 3 – 6. That should get you into the vault." In Bentley's place, a combination of letters and numbers organised as a key appeared.

"This should allow you to access the rest of Raleigh's vaults, according to his code encryption algorithm, when I am unable to contact you. Hopefully you will secure your family's entire book, the pages he has. Oh, and one more thing. From my investigations by RC chopper I think the cannon at the stern will be your only way up to the storm machine. Also, I project our arrival in another fifty-eight minutes and twenty-nine seconds. You might need to hurry."

"Thanks a heap Bentley, "said Sly. "I guess we'll see each other quiet soon. Until then, good luck with soothing Carmelita. I am going to try my darn best to ensure that Raleigh never threatens the Welsh coast again."

"Great Sly, said Bentley, "Murray and I will contact you via the Binoc-u-Com when we are in position to pick you up. We'll also try and ensure that Interpol are directed to Raleigh once you have beaten him. For now I'm too busy to keep in touch, but good luck. I'll have to think of a way to get Murray and I back to the van, without harming any of these Interpol officers. They really are such brave people, like you Sly."

"Thanks pal, said Sly, sniffing a little at Bentley's empathy. He and Murray were just such great guys. "That – you – it means a lot to me."

"We'll keep an eye on things here Sly, and we'll be there for you," Bentley said. "Contact me again if you are in real trouble. I feel bad running away from Carmelita like this, but I don't think we should be objects of arrest for her just yet. She really is a great girl at heart Sly – treasure that, and don't forget how valuable that really is. I cannot help but admire how she has remained such a decent person through all of this."

"She truly is," said Sly, "And don't worry, I have never forgotten that – especially since I first met her. I have always valued our relationship. Take heart Bentley and good luck to you too. I'll see you soon; after all of us have finished this madman. Say hi to Murray for me. I miss all of you."

"I will Sly," said Bentley, "Good luck – and I know you will be a great master thief – you are a great person, Sly." He smiled and his image blurred. The connection went off-line.

"Yeah," Sly whispered, "So are all of you guys as well. What would a master thief – at the moment, one in the making – be without great friends, those like you." He sighed, content in that moment; knowing that there were people out there who cared about Sly Cooper. He was lucky enough to be an object of affection and love to great people.

The raccoon slid the Binoc-u-Com back into his leg pouch and faced the vault. One of the planes suspended from the ceiling nearby creaked, its propellers spinning limply. The boats positioned in the gunboat graveyard below bobbed up and down on the gentle swell. Quickly reciting the three-digit combination over again to himself, Sly kneeled on his haunches and scrolled each tumbler on the vault door until the digits 6 – 3 – 6 were in order. He stood up, holding the cane in his right hand, and waited as there emanated a rumbling sound of clanking metal. Then there was a satisfying _THUMP _as a heavy mechanism inside locked in place. The vault creaked and the door swung open. Pushing it back to a full ninety-degree angle, Sly examined the vault's contents.

A small steel box – about twenty-five by thirty-five centimetres – sat at the bottom. The interior of the vault was plain, with no velvet or copper stand. Sly could taste a strange electric tang on his tongue, like that of copper and water mixed together. He guessed it was some of Raleigh's strange gizmos that were down here. The vault was not the only contraption Raleigh had in store for him. Sly reached down and picked up the steel box. He prised of the lid, which appeared like it had not been opened for many months at least. He smiled at what he found. Tucked within the steel box, padded by plastic wrap, were two sheafs of paper. Each contained about three or four pages and was bound in twine. The paper was faded a little, but was undoubtedly what he sought: more pages of The Thievious Raccoonus.

Sly gingerly and respectfully extracted the first sheaf, placing the box at his feet. He undid the twine and examined the top page of four. It was quite crisp, a little dry and crackly to the touch, but it was intact. In a scrawling, loopy hand was written the title Sir Galleth, knight of the round table. Just below this was a second scrawl which stated, circa 1301 to 1356. An artist's impression of the knight was painted on a small section of canvas glued down to the page.

Sir Galleth himself stood majestically, bedecked in full armour. In his right hand he clasped a long metal jousting rod, on the tip of which was the famous shape of the Cooper cane. So he had found Sir Galleth's papers after all. And not just that, but again he saw something bizarre, unsettling. In the top left corner of the painting was a black ragged shape. It looked something like an owl, but Sly couldn't tell for sure. It was disconcerting – this was very similar to the shape that had appeared on Helen Eliza Cooper's entry photograph, the pages which were in his backpack now. This unsettled Sly; what could it mean?

He had a strange feeling it had something to do with the mysterious Master that he had heard mentioned. Also the villain Clockwerk who he knew had been responsible for his mother and father's death. But how on earth could these two be related – they were at least seven centuries apart. There was no way, surely, that they could be one and the same. Besides, Bentley had always said he didn't even know if Clockwerk was directly related to or had founded The Fiendish Five.

Sly could feel that this mysterious villain was more of a threat than he first had thought. He was yet to find out the full extremity that he had and would play. He was only just unravelling the mysteries surrounding the mysterious deaths of his family line. One thing was for sure: someone over the centuries had been there, watching his family for a sinister purpose. In the end it had robbed Sly of his family. Every single master thief called Cooper had tangled with this dark entity it seemed. Even now, secrets about the people he had thought he had known seemed to be coming to light. Sly was going to get to the bottom of this. And he was not alone in his mission.

Glossing over all of this for now, Sly quickly flicked through pages two to four and noted the special 'forward-lunge' technique developed by Sir Galleth when using his jousting pole. It enabled the one who perfected the move to strike with precision and accuracy. The move, however, was designed as defence and not really for offence. That would be a useful one for grabbing keys and other valuable items from guards and the like once Sly perfected it. But he put the papers down for now and removed the twine off of the next sheaf.  
This set of paper was not really so old. Sly blinked when he read the name Henriette 'One-Eye' Cooper written in graceful script across the top of the first page. This entry was dated at circa 1621. He was surprised at finding these two entries together. A faded ink-colour picture had been scratched onto what felt like parchment. Henriette Victoria Cooper was an attractive raccoon, dressed here in a tight-fitting black costume with a brown leather belt and knee-high buckled boots. She also wore black gloves.

Sly seemed to remember something about her being the daughter of some other Cooper at that time. Rioichi Cooper had challenged the emperors of Feudal Japan during the very early sixteen-hundreds. Maybe that was the connection of which he thought. After all, he had already known – remembered from tales told by his father – that Helen Cooper was a direct descendant of Sir Galleth, even with that odd Spanish-sounding middle name. He would also look at Sir Galleth's entry to the Thievious Raccoonus more closely- but right now, Sly quickly continued to peruse Henriette's pages.

Noticeably, her left eye was covered by a patch – in the image her left hand had not yet been replaced by the shape of the Cooper cane. Instead she held a short dagger in her mouth with a handle in the shape of the cane. She wore no hat, but had a tangled mane of blond hair raining down her back and a great curl of it rested on her forehead. A scabbard for the dagger was slung across her sensibly small bosom.

And again, in the background, was the familiar ragged shape. Sly frowned at it, but decided to let the matter rest. He could discuss that with Bentley and Murray at a better time. He knew that Henriette was famous for her fancy rope and swordplay techniques. The most infamous female pirate the Caribbean ever saw. Maybe he would have time for just a little reading before moving on.

At 1621 this entry was almost four centuries old, the present year being 2002. Still, it was not as old as some he hadn't yet seen, but knew of. He thought briefly for a moment: he had been born in 1981, placing him exactly three-hundred and sixty years after Henriette. It was amazing, when he thought about it, how expansive and long-lasting the Cooper thief clan really was.

After all, he placed his father at being born around 1957. He knew virtually nothing about his mother, who had probably not been a Cooper thief herself. Rather she would have devoted herself to raising the infant Sly. A tear escaped Sly's eye, at the thought of her sudden and violent death – like his father, in July of 1986. If only he could have known her – known them – better than the narrow window of five years he had had. He had hardly known, or could remember really, what it was to feel a mother's love – his mother's love. The raccoon quickly caught himself from slipping away into his well of memories and decided to ponder that another time – he returned to the present.

Remembering his tight schedule, with Interpol only about fifty-five minutes away and Raleigh's men still looking for him undoubtedly, Sly hurried to move on. His friends were on their way, but he needed to play out his entire roll first: he was determined not to fail.

_I am a Cooper, I can be so much more than just a petty thief – I just need to believe I can be._

Quickly he transferred the sheaf of paper to his left hand, and with the other slipped a piece of folded cardboard from his leg pouch. Unfolding the cardboard one saw the familiar shape of the raccoon's head. Sly placed his calling card on the floor of the vault, where it stared back at him. Then he rifled through the pages, placing them in order, and took advantage of his precious few minutes for reading them.

_Wednesday - Feburay13th, 1621: I am lucky to be here today. I have narrowly survived an encounter with probably who was the most infamous criminal in the Caribbean. He now, surely, rests forever on the sea floor. It is only because I managed to remember, have faith in what he could not that I am not in the same place. It is always a tragic thing to lose a life, but I fear that I had no choice. I had to ensure he did no more harm: for him had already taken so many lives in his lust for wealth. So now, if anyone should read this, I will tell you my tale. And how I hope I am remembered and made a worthy tribute to my family._

I come from a centuries-spanning lineage of thieves, as I learnt from my father. I have not seen him for three years; ever since I left the great eastern land we call Asia. But I remember him as a wise man. He loved me, even though you, dear reader, may not think it. I may never see him again, but I have always taken his words to heart. He said to me: have faith in yourself, believe in who you are. Always trust your friends, never underestimate the power of their compassion and love to you.

And remember, no matter who you are, what you do, you can always chose to do good. It is your ultimate choices that will make your nature. Only you can decide your path. It does not matter whether you are a thief, because you can chose to do good with that. You can be great – but you must make it so. Believe in compassion, and ultimately what is important to you. There is no greater treasure than being loved, able to care; and be loved back, cared for again. With this knowledge, my daughter, you can be strong. I believed in you when I first laid eyes on you as a baby, and I always will.

Now go out into the world, and craft your path. We are master thieves, we can be called so, because we seek to add to the world, not take away from it. So if you choose this path, please try not to forget that. Unlike your enemies, ultimately, you will be a symbol of hope. I love you, my daughter. Persist, overcome obstacles, and no one can truly take you down; life is hard, but them why would we live it? Go out there, dare to live! With the courage to hope, to see past the superficial, you can go anywhere. Have the courage to live, to love: what has always been our truest treasure. Now is your time – in the end, your own love for everyone will be your greatest weapon. It is your chance to live, but fight for a world to live in and be brave in the face of great odds. I hope, in this respect – with what we do – the world is free.

Anywhere, dear reader, I am getting away from myself. What I mean to tell you is that my father's words have always been my inspiration; they were that little glint of encouragement I needed to finally face my enemy. And because I remembered those words, I was able to overcome him, and come out what I fell to be a better person for it. So, I will relate the story of my adventure.  
Captain Alistair LeFwee was probably the most infamous scoundrel the seven seas had ever known. He, with his wretched crew and infamous ship The Scarlet Maiden, pillaged merchant vessels – and even passenger ships – lured by his lust for their gold. He sank no more than thirteen ships in just five years. And almost every life on board each ship was lost. I dare say that LeFwee was responsible for at least ten-thousand deaths by his singular actions. This alone was a terrible crime: and although I am a pirate myself, I would never do such a thing. No, for I steal only from the likes of LeFwee, so that this true villainy may be no more. Sometimes the line between good and bad is not clear, which is what my family lineage represents. You can inch over that line but not too far. Sometimes you have to in order to achieve many things.

And that's what I have been doing; to stop LeFwee, and so many like him. Why would I want to steal gold and jewels for wealth and personal gain? It was for the satisfaction of knowing I had bested those monsters – a trophy of a greater achievement. That being my true treasure, I had ordained to put an end to LeFwee once and for all. Knowing I had done that was a greater gain to me than any gold. Because I knew I had saved lives, and gained that little bit more love and compassion, that care. That was all I really wanted: to be loved for what I am, but also, ultimately, after I put this life aside and continue on, handing it down. To not always be remembered the loveless pirate who killed just because I could, for lust of gold.

So my valiant and loyal crew and I, in our faithful vessel The Hope's Adventure, tracked LeFwee's Scarlet Maiden for twenty-seven days until we found him. Off the coast of the great southern American continent we found he had a lair. He stashed every single piece of gold tainted and blemished by his touch in a great cave. Here he would gloat over his treasure, glory in his wealth. He would not have been below betraying and killing his own men for his gold and jewels. But I had had enough of this villain's terror.

When we were about one-hundred yards beyond The Scarlet Maiden, having snuck up around the great bay there, we let loose our cannons on his sails. I was not so cowardly as to attack, to kill from behind. Our fire shredded his sails and ensured he was going nowhere: it was time to finish this. Instantly his men noticed our presence, of course. We drew The Hope's Adventure alongside the Scarlet Maiden and, swinging on ropes and leaping forth from the deck, we engaged them in battle.

It was a brutal fight, for my men and me, and to their credit they were brave and strong. Not one of them thought of betraying me and abandoning ship – we all fought on together, staying there for each other. They were indeed the best crew any girl could have. Flintlocks were fired, cutlasses clashed and the sound of gunfire was almost deafening. LeFwee's men were not about to give up either: though they for their gold and we to save lives. My crew numbered thirty-two men, LeFwee's forty-one. But somehow – incredibly – we managed to beat them back. After many minutes three of my men lay dead, for who I wept for later and have never forgotten what they gave for our endeavour.

We had not killed any of LeFwee's men, for their deaths were not in any way necessary. We only fought to protect, restraining who we could. That was when he came out. Captain Alistair LeFwee was almost comical: a short parrot, no more than five-foot three. Yet he wielded the most enormous cutlass. He also bore the marks of his piratical occupation: his left eye was gone; his right foot nothing more than a jagged metal peg. As soon as he saw me, as soon as he understood what was happening, he was livid. In me he had also found an enemy for over two years. So now he was going to try and finish me off and my crew, my ship. But I would not let him take any more of my men's lives. That battle between LeFwee and I was monumental, a ferocious duel of swordsmanship and agility. How I managed to keep on going, pushing through it and believing in myself, I may never be able to tell.

LeFwee charged for me, albeit summon clumsily in his blind rage. I ducked him easily, before he swung about and made to impale me on his blade. I parried that blow with my own well-trusted dagger: the dagger whose handle possesses the famous shape of the Cooper clan. Then, aiming to draw our fight away from my crewmen, I lunged for the rigging and raced up a rope, heading for the crow's nest. LeFwee roared and raced after me, not quite matching my speed – as I scurried up the rope – but swiping that horrendous cutlass. In a few frenzied seconds I had reached the crow's nest and the real battle begun.

Both my men and LeFwee's men roared and called loudly down below on the deck, quickly resuming their own individual fights. LeFwee rushed for me and I pirouetted backwards, launching myself away from the crow's nest, grabbing onto a hanging length of rope. Then I swung back around and clashed blades with the parrot, still in the crow's nest. He gave an ungodly screech and vaulted forth himself, seizing another rope hanging from the rigging. He came towards me and our blades clanged and clashed multiple times – our sword fight taking place in mid-air.

Unfortunately for me, LeFwee was slicing his blade in a primal rage as we came around again to face each other. Before I could do anything our blades met again, but my dagger slipped. Then there was a horrendous pain in my left wrist and I looked down to see my left hand had parted company with my arm. In its place was a bloody stump. Gritting my teeth with the awful pain and stinging, I ripped fabric from my collar and attempted to bandage the stump, as LeFwee swung to face my again. My dagger had been flicked out of my left hand and had stuck itself firmly in the wood of a horizontal mast pole, the central mast. In the air, with only my right hand, I could no longer defeat LeFwee alone.

As my strength was ebbing away, I swung for the mast and swung my body over it. Letting the rope fall away I saw my bloodied left hand, landed on the deck below. It looked small, absurd, pathetic, now no longer attached to my wrist. But LeFwee was charging again, so I grimaced, swallowed the pain, and stood up on the wooden pole. I ripped my dagger from the wood and held it steadily in my right hand. LeFwee leapt onto the mast, the shredded sail tethered there fluttering in his wake. Our eyes met and then we both knew - his steely gaze fixed on my own eyes: we both knew this was the end of it.

Below us, a ten metre drop down to the water, I saw the familiar fins of sharks cutting like knifes through the crystalline surface. The dripping of blood from my wrist into the water had attracted them. LeFwee advanced on me, sure he had me dead to rights. Then, his great cutlass leading, he lunged forwards and I deflected the blow with my dagger. LeFwee toppled, the force of his lunge taking him dangerously close to the tip of the mast.

The terror in his eyes now, seeing the sharks below, he attempted a last ditch swing at me. I winced and blocked the blow with my dagger, knowing what would happen next. LeFwee yelped and then, just like that, he overbalanced and fell, splashing into the water. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the sound, as the water turned into a choppy froth and became stained red: red with LeFwee's own blood. Mercifully, the screaming was cut off instantly. At that moment, the battle was over, the day won.

Seeing their captain's grisly demise, the crew of The Scarlet Maiden surrendered. The ship was ours, including its treasure; all its gold and jewels. When we searched that ship we found that LeFwee had stashed mountains of treasure pilfered from merchant freighters, worth many millions. But it was blood money: we kept almost none of it, I myself keeping only a single gold chalice filled with doubloons. I don't know why I chose that, it just seemed a good trophy of overcoming the monstrous Alistair LeFwee. All the rest of that ill-gotten gold shall be returned to the nation's treasury, though my crew and I do not plan to admit this being our own act. We were proud with what we had done.

But the authorities would not likely see it the way we do: they would take us in for sure. And for now, I don't think a cell is where I belong: I think my destiny will lead me elsewhere until I know what I should do. I have something to accomplish as a thief, something which this adventure has only strengthened in me. One thing is for sure, that, in the end, I will do something that is good – as the thief that I am. That's all I have ever really wanted to do in the end, for that is my true nature – one I wish to make so.

As for me, now, I plan to replace my lost hand; that which LeFwee took from me. I think it can be something more useful than it is – my dagger, my faithful dagger may serve that purpose. A symbol I am proud to wield as a lasting tribute to my family's lineage; I am proud of that. So, dear reader, now that I have been able to recount my tale, albeit in the briefest words, I wish to leave you with my final thoughts.

If, someday, a Cooper long after me should read these pages, then let it be known I was proud to come before you. I learned that true courage, valour and strength come from love, the ultimate desire to use your nature - who you are - for good. You can do this no matter who you are, no matter what you do; but you must make that choice. I can understand that now, so I feel stronger, better for it. Without it I would be indeed just another ordinary thief. Dare to love, so in the end - ultimately, you can be selfless, not selfishness – not like my enemy once was. Know who you are and except it, everyone has a weakness. You just need the courage to face your path, have the courage to move forwards. Believe that somehow you have the ability to change the world and, ultimately, yourself. Then in the times of greatest need, you will never have to back down: when time demands it, you will know what to do. Have courage and compassion...

_Henriette Marianne Cooper - 1621_

Sly stood back momentarily, thoughts flooding his head. About the bravery Henriette had shown, and her unflinching belief in her own strength and courage – how she had managed to remain compassionate through what she had done. Sly could only admire that, sigh in admiration. He had not known this before, for his father had never been able to tell him. As he put the pages into his pack, though still grasping Sir Galleth's in his left hand, he smiled. He could change the world, be part of it in his own way, no matter who he was. He could keep fighting, he could make good – he just needed to keep on going. No matter what stood before him, his belief in himself –what he fought for -, and others would carry him through to the very end. _But there's no denying it will be hard road, a test of me – us._

_#_

Carmelita glanced quickly down at her list of personnel, the list she kept in a zip pocket on the left thigh of her combat trousers. She examined all the names on that list: _Fox, M. Carmelita, Rae, H. Pierre, Higgins, N. Winston, Winthrop, J. Timothy, Dubois, A. Henri, O'Connor, B. Anthony, Reynaud, P. Frederick and Michelin, F. Luc. _Yes, everyone, all eight members of her team - herself included, were accounted for. Reynaud and Michelin had stayed behind with the vehicles and the Cooper van. They seemed to be safe: for now all of Sir Raleigh's eyes were on her party. _Oh Sly, you strange thief – you make this difficult.  
_  
She had also accounted for Bentley and Murray, who were still walking along with the group. She brushed her shock pistol, knowing what she had to do. She sniffed back the tears she felt welling up. They all understood what must happen, for all of them had chosen the current path. They would just have to see where it took them. Have courage, whether for better or for worse. Her ears twitched as she fleetingly heard the sound of an officer loading his Smith and Wesson. She nodded to herself: soon, very soon, they would need to fight.

But, as she had known since leaving her Spanish village, they would fight for a true reason.

#

Sly, glancing at the Binoc-u-Com's inbuilt monitor, gauged the time at 2:25 AM. This meant just another twenty-two minutes until Bentley calculated Interpol's arrival, by which time he would have to be moving, and pretty darn fast. He needed those pages, the reading of which had already taken thirty minutes here. He made to shove Galleth's papers into his pack too, but stopped to glance at them for a moment.

The section of calligraphy-like scrawl read: _My family has been in England for just over two centuries now. Since the battle of Hastings in 1066 the Coopers emigrated here from France with William the Conqueror, accompanying the invading Normans. On this journey we became acquainted with the Fox clan, a family of nobles fleeing civil conflict in Spain. My great-great-great grandfather Lancelot Cooper became good friends with Sergio Fox, with whom he shared a position on the knight's council. As a direct descendant of Lancelot, I have now inherited his place on the council, along with Sergio's great-great-great grandson José Fox. We too have become fast friends, though we are different._

For I am a master thief, of the Cooper lineage - however I am destined to honour; he is the bravest knight I have ever met, fighting to protect the poor in our great nation, as I, too, hope to do. No matter who he is, I respect him as the great person he is: we just do things in our separate ways – acceptance is a knight's honour. And respect for diversity, for each other, is what holds the council together. Even at the most difficult times the most seemingly different of us can work together. For we all have the common goal to fight for love and freedom, no matter how it is done, if honourable – and that is how I live, the code I live by. Acceptance can make a man great, while pride, vanity and prejudice can make him fall.

_ The year is now 1339 and the council has been called upon to aid in a conflict between French and English forces. José and I are off to fight, brothers in arms. True to my honour as a man of Cooper blood, I will stay by his side until the end. And never forget that I always fight for the people, not just for my gain. In the meantime I will hope to perfect my spiral lunge, where I am able to knock a man out with one single fluid movement, fast as a dart – aided by my jousting pole, of course. So into battle we will charge... _Sly stopped reading here and quickly skipped down to the bottom of the entry.

_It is 1355, and I fear an enemy is following me. I never see him, but I see his outline; that dread ragged shadow. My wife and child have travelled back to Spain with José, his assurance given me they will be protected. Hopefully I will join them once I have defeated this enemy. But I cannot know - the future is uncertain... _Sly took a breath; for here – mentioned yet again – was the foreboding entity he kept on seeing within each entry, described as the black ragged shape. This would be solved, he promised it; but right now he needed to be moving, so he skipped to the last line. This line had been inked in much later.

_Although sources are uncertain, I surmise that Sir Galleth's descendents returned to Britain at about 1890, where – in 1906, I guess – they had a child. This child was born of a Spanish mother, but brought up away from the country where her parents had lived. They retreated, as far as I can guess, to a small coastal town in western Ireland, where they could safely raise the child: away from the mysterious enemy recorded by Galleth in 1339. Although few definite records remain, from piecing segments of our family tree together, I dare say that child was Helen Eliza Cooper, her middle name that of her mother. What happened after that, beside her entry, I cannot say. Conner Co..._

The last line became smudged at the end, and Sly could not read it. But he was fairly sure it should have read 'Connor Cooper', his own father. Clearly he had been researching the Cooper blood line and lineage long before Sly was born. Once again Sly thought, though never big on his grammar, he had hardly known as wiser man than his father. Although the fiend he knew as Clockwerk had killed his father, could he be related to the mysterious enemy recorded by his ancestors? Surely it was not possible; though, still, a dark thought nibbled at the back of Sly's mind. He would explore that later, with the comfort of his two best friends. Together they could solve the mystery, and hopefully dissolve whatever this seemingly growing threat was. He shoved Sir Galleth's papers into his pack and, leaving the vault displaying his calling card behind, sprinted across a gantry and into the hulk of the boat.

02:46:45 AM –

Sly stood next to the enormous cannon he had run past earlier on the bow of Raleigh's tremendous lair. He had managed to pilfer another treasure key, taken from an unsuspecting guard who had also carried the lair's schematics, telling Sly which key he needed. The schematics had also told him where the remaining pages had been. He now possessed two more sheafs of paper, detailing entries from Bruce O Coop's computer hacking technique to Sally Cooper's pick-pocketing technique. A new method of computer hacking would be very useful to Bentley later on, when the gang tackled the other four members of the five. And pick-pocketing goons would be fun: the schematics had revealed the remaining entries Raleigh held to be secured in the storm machine, with the mastermind himself.

No guards were in sight, including Aqualon's men. Sly had seemingly managed to shake them off his tail after the incident with the gunpowder cache. He twirled the key in his hand and bent down to unlock the hatch in the cannon. It popped open and Sly - pack, cane and all – made to climb inside. Bentley's three lucky horseshoes, the magnetic devices, were tucked in Sly's leg pouch – they would be useful. Suddenly there was a loud clang and a roar of wrath. Sly snapped his head up and saw an angry face growling at him.

"Cooper," roared the scarlet visage of Marius Aqualon, "This will be your final end!"

"Haven't you learnt yet general," Sly said sadly, "Killing is not the answer." Then he ducked into the cannon and the hatch clanged shut, missing Aqualon's blade. "Maybe next time you'll make a better choice – I hope so, for your sake."

"NOOO!" screamed Aqualon, as Sly shot from the cannon towards the storm machine.

**Chapter 12 of 13 in Part 2 of 6.  
The climatic showdown approaches, along with the end of Raleigh's empire.  
A dangerous plot is now under way to secure a terrible weapon once Sly Cooper's mission is complete. Ancient secrets will be revealed.  
But all these events are set to trigger a bigger event than anyone could imagine...  
It might be getting a little complicated, but I hope you enjoyed this chapter. A revised and expanded prologue is also in progress. I hope you like it - Creative Raccoon.**


	17. Chapter 16 - Part I

**Chapter Sixteen - Part 1: Out of the Frying Pan.**

**Author's Note: Sorry about the delay, but Chapter 16 is shaping up to be rather complicated, what with juggling new plot points and a gradually expanding series of story arcs. I also have had less time to work on it lately - but it will be finished. Several more characters are being incorporated in as well, so the next part will be soon - about a week hopefully. **Anyway, for now, this is a bit of a teaser. ****

The relentless sheets of rain maintained their pummelling of the southern Welsh coast. The Isle of Wrath, perched in the churning soup of froth that was the Welsh triangle, stood defiantly against its master's meteorological menace. The storm machine hovered in the middle of the craggy limestone isle, where a faint crashing sound – that of breaking glass – was heard; the uninvited entry of a certain thief.

But _he _ignored the sound, unable to hear it over the torrential downpour and howling wind in any case. Swiftly taking in his surrounds, checking all was clear, he spoke into his throat mike tucked beneath his collar. Above him loomed Sir Eric Winchester Raleigh's storm machine and the hulking boat that was his lair. _He _glared at the monstrous structure, hating it, its master. The throat mike crackled with static and a soft reply was heard.

"Agent Beta," said a voice in English, though with a thick accent that could have been South African, "Declare – please – your status."

"This is Agent Beta," _he _replied, first in English, then again in a guttural tongue. The language sounded like Afrikaans, the language of the apartheid regime overthrown in South Africa in 1994. "I wish to report on our satellite uplink and communications emplacement."

"Excellent, excellent," said the South African voice. "Alpha is anxious for any updates and news. As you know, this mission is pivotal and must not fail."

"I assure you I will succeed," Agent Beta replied in hushed tones, "But this operation will need time. Back in Bogota, where the Cooper Gang performed a certain heist of a Mr Bison's illicit diamond mine, I managed to place a transmitter on their van. Unfortunately they escaped the tear gas and I was unable to bring them to Alpha for questioning."

"That was indeed an unfortunate setback to our plans," the voice replied, "But never the less, we shall succeed. Our satellite is currently in a geosynchronous orbit 27,000 miles above Earth's surface. It will receive any signals coming from that transmitter, which shall, in turn, be bounced back to you on your exclusive micro-wave signature. You and only you shall be able to listen in on the Cooper gang for the duration of this mission. Then you will know what they are planning and when the time is appropriate to dispatch them. Eventually we are also sure to find out about the Spear-Head."

"Hopefully," muttered Agent Beta, "But Inspector Fox has been causing me some worry, what with her strange attitude to that scum Sly Cooper. I have also noticed, courtesy of our own men, that the DIA are cracking down on all covert communications and satellite or micro-wave signals detected anywhere on the globe. Those nuts down in Virginia may crack our code if our men on the inside do not watch it."

"We have multiple men on the case," assured the voice. "We have two of our own men working alongside the official DIA cryptanalysts, so I think we are safe for now. As for Inspector Fox, although I wish to spare any non-criminal life possible, dispatch her if her 'attitude' to the Cooper Gang is to compromise the mission. If you make it look accidental, Interpol will put it down to 'died in action'. One fox will not wreck Alpha's plan."

"Stromberg will not be disappointed," said Agent Beta, "She has seen Interpol fail many times before in her own previous career and it will not happen again. That is why we are here. The NICE are different from all other law enforcing organisations, as we will kill when necessary. For now the turtle and hippo are with the group, while Cooper is somewhere in Raleigh's lair. If we do not capture them tonight – given how infamous they are for eluding such things I would so it's probable – I will know what they are planning to do instantly, thanks to our satellite. Then I will know when their purpose has run out and when they must be dispatched; once we know all we need to know about the Spear-Head."

"Precisely," said the South African voice. "But be warned, Agent Beta, our intelligence tells us that Brendan Stringer has been seen lately in Russia and Norway. As you know, the Fiendish Five is believed to house some secret and terrible weapon there, though we cannot yet know its nature. I am suspicious that the Fiendish Five are harbouring, or parts of, the Spear-Head. Stringer's criminal collective, the Vortex, is also spread across Europe and Asia – we have tracked most of its members. I think Stringer is collaborating with The Fiendish Five, or at least their master, on some grand scheme involving the Spear-Head. We must sabotage this and take it for ourselves. We need all the intelligence we can get, which on you we are therefore reliant."

"Yes, I understand," said Beta slowly, "But we know very little about the master of the Five. Any men we have sent to Svalbard - where most reports pinpoint The Master's whereabouts - , where we have detected trace amounts of radiation from radon-220 gas; have not come back; not, at least, without loss. We cannot risk any more men to overcome the Five from this end – I see the best way for us to manage this is for me to remain with inspector Fox's party – who will in turn be trailing Cooper's gang – until the trail leads us there. Once we have confirmed The Master's existence on Svalbard we can move him and finish off the Five once and for all. Not to mention wiping Cooper and his gang off our slate – then Stromberg's grand plan can be accomplished."

"And with the Five gone," said the other voice, "We will have the Spear-Head in our grasp at last; that is if Stringer has indeed allied himself with the Five. If not, then we track him down and kill him after Cooper has been killed. He is to be our final priority. If you get the chance yourself, detain him and bring him back to Alpha for questioning. We need that device, and I think he has valuable information."

"That's all very well," Agent Beta whispered, "But what of Sir Nigel Charles McShellson? He is not criminal, but has none-the-less disappeared from our records. He would likely have valuable information too: I think he is here to protect his son from Stringer and ensure, like us, that the device does not fall into his hands. We will need him just as much as Stringer. He may even need to be dispatched if his knowledge of the device should threaten our plans for the free world governments."

"Alpha predicts that should not be a problem," said the South African voice. "If Stringer is involved with The Fiendish Five, as you have mentioned, then he shall come to us, in order to protect his son - likely his friends Sly Cooper and Murray the hippo too. I knew him from studying the pair before Stringer's attempted killing attempts and both of their disappearances from the public eye: McShellson in 1997 and Stringer in February of 2001. It has been rumoured that Sir Nigel McShellson, he who worked on the Spear-head with Stringer, has been sighted fleetingly in Wales; even though thought dead as of June 1997. Both facts give us reason to believe that taking down the Fiendish five will not only rid us of a great enemy, but gain us the greatest weapon the world has ever seen."

"So I should just continue following Cooper, whilst hiding amongst Interpol, so that both Stringer and Sir Nigel will come to us?" Agent Beta paused, thinking. "Then that will get us what we need? The Cooper Gang take out The Fiendish Five for us, we get Stringer and any pieces of the Spear-Head the Cooper Gang recovers at the end, and then we finish them off too. I take Inspector Fox out of the picture if necessary and we can take Stringer and Sir Nigel in for questioning, having drawn the latter in by threatening his son – or Stringer having done it. So The Fiendish Five is finished, the Cooper Gang wiped out, Stringer brought to justice, we get the Spear-Head and we do not even lose our cover. If all goes according to plan, because this unhealthy relationship between Fox and Cooper could be a big problem. Also that Barkley is a pretty shrewd fellow; if he gets in touch with the DIA, should suspicions be raised, we will have a good job of getting that weapon."

"Alpha must have it, if our plan is to be carried out to its fullest extent," said the South African voice. "Even once we possess the full might of Delta 7, only North and South America, Polynesia, East Asia and Australia will be under our thumb. Europe will remain untouched. We will need the Spear-Head for Easter Island, it is essential. Agents in Moscow have tracked Stringer's movements and captured the scientist Boris Ivanovo just 34 minutes ago, who is also believed to have worked with Stringer on the Spear-Head. As Sir Nigel remains elusive we hope to verify the weapon's existence from him, then you can go ahead with trailing the Cooper Gang as we hoped. Unfortunately it is still up to you to find Stringer, as he escaped our agents in Vladivostok, St Petersburg and Moscow. Who knows where he is now?"

The voice released an exasperated sigh.

"That is pleasing to hear," Agent Beta said. "I will keep watch on the events here and report back to you when it is important. If the Five do have the Spear-Head, and if the Cooper Gang do reclaim its pieces, then I will only make my move once this Ivanovo has confirmed Stringer ever possessed portions of it. If McShellson has the secrets to any of the pieces, then it is a race between us and the Vortex to claim them. Stringer will lead us to Sir Nigel, for where ever his son is, I think Stringer will now be, and therefore McShellson also. But if the device is indeed gone for good, then all is not lost. There is one more valuable resource that The Master, apparently lurking somewhere on Svalbard, should possess. That will become our alternate goal if the first machination should not succeed. Then we must still wipe out all of these enemies, who could be a danger to us."

"You are indeed correct," said the voice. "Alpha is well aware of the trace amounts of thorium-238 found on Svalbard - of which heavily concentrated and therefore deadly radon-220 gas is a dissolved by-product - , not to mention in the Pyrenees and just beneath Easter Island. This will be a great resource and allow us great power once we control it, especially along the Easter fracture zone. I fear The Master of the Five currently has its greatest deposits under his power – this cannot remain. We shall have the Spear-Head and kill every criminal in this case, or we get that thorium-238 and kill them all anyway."

"I understand," said Agent Beta, "Stromberg will have us achieve either scheme if one should fail. For now I will wait for your conformation. If Ivanovo cannot tell us, then I will wait and listen in on the Cooper Gang. They will gain us the Spear-head or give us the means to wrest control of the largest thorium-238 deposits from The Master. They may even destroy this mysterious criminal into the bargain for us, before we destroy them. Then we move onto NICE's greatest plan and the ultimate achievement of Stromberg's goal. As long as Interpol remains in the dark, no one can stand up to us, for it will be too late by then. But Sly Cooper must be killed, or the idea behind this whole wretched scheme will never truly succeed. One statement: Sly Cooper and his gang are to be dead at the end of this mission."

"If we are able to manipulate events as such then yes," replied the South African voice. "The greatest goal the world has ever seen will be fulfilled: the eradication of crime through anarchy and then a fresh start for the free world. But only if we, you can succeed. Do not fail, or Alpha will punish us all. This is the greatest chance at our vision, the world's vision, we have had yet. It only needs those willing enough to bring that dream to life. And then police and maintain that dream to keep it alive as long as it shall be. Alpha was one of us, the greatest amongst us, who believed in that vision and will now bring it to life!"

"John F Kennedy, Margaret Thatcher, Nelson Mandela; all great leaders who could have brought that vision to life, but were ultimately stifled or failed in the charge," declared Agent Beta. "So now the world, with Stromberg as our great leader, upon the success of our venture, shall know what it is to live in our new world. From anarchy we shall raise freedom from crime, with the NICE as its head - if we are only able to succeed!"

"Alpha is counting on you Beta," said the South African speaker. "Let nothing stand in the way of your mission. We hold the ultimate power to change the world. Those who hold great power can do great things – this is now your responsibility. And at the end of it all Sly Cooper will be dead. Then the world will know of us and we can all start anew. We will be in touch with you again on this micro-wave signature once we have interrogated Ivanovo. Then proceed as we discussed – otherwise, only make contact when you have gained knowledge essential to our plans. The DIA, or Barkley and Interpol must not know of us yet."

"It shall be done, Night," Agent Beta said, 'NICE can place its faith safely in me."

"Excellent Beta – Agent Xavier Night signing out," said the voice, this time in Afrikaans. Agent Knight's radio crackled and then clicked off. All communications were again silent over the exclusive satellite connection – at least, for now.

With satisfaction, knowing that the DIA and Interpol were at least fooled temporarily – not even aware of his presence – Agent Beta smiled. He pressed a button on his throat mike, silencing the device. No one in the party of Interpol personnel noticed him. He reached down to his belt and removed his prized nickel-plated Beretta. He clicked it once, loading a magazine. Now he was ready to fight alongside Inspector Fox's Interpol delegation.

And none of them would know why he was truly there, his actual identity – not until the very end perhaps. He would personally help ensure the end to The Fiendish Five, Brendan Stringer and the Vortex, and, maybe most importantly, the infamous Cooper Gang. Justice, strong and not failing to weakness would finally come upon them all. Agent Beta was proud of the choice he had made: the world would be a better place once he completed his goal, he believed that.

_You should be prepared Sly Cooper, master thief, _he thought,_ now you have three enemies on your tail _– The Fiendish Five, Brendan Stringer's Vortex and, now, the NICE.

_And none of us, wherever you are in the world, wretched thief, is about to give up!_

_#_

Carmelita drew her left hand up behind her back briefly, brushing the scar there. It cut across her left shoulder blade from left to right, about twenty-five centimetres long. This scar, a trophy of an early mission, in fact her first after the Diva Diamond case, three years before now. Maybe she would have more scars at the end of this mission too; though not all of them physical – of this she was uncertain, where Sly was concerned. But still she thought, no matter what happened she was proud of why she had it. She would never want to change that.

Higgins marched at the group's middle, the great boat now coming directly into view. It was truly enormous, terrible in its scale.

_Such a great shame its being used for such evil purposes. _

The leviathan lorded itself over the island, a very permanent presence. In less than an hour, though, that would cease to be the case: a fact that would go out with a spectacular flaming bang of its own. Higgins, like the rest of his comrades, was even now unaware of the scheming and greater machination going on around their mission. Of what they were involved in being far bigger than they could imagine; something which would have a global effect. So much more than they all knew was at stake. And even now greedy and ruthless forces were working against them. But, of course, there were several people who were even now working – unknowingly perhaps – against this.

Higgins' sister, Bronwyn, back in France, besides the badger Barkley, the Chief Inspector; Carmelita, Himself, Winthrop, Pierre and all the rest of them - maybe, just maybe, Sly Cooper and his gang... though on the opposite side of the law. In these troubled days it was hard to know who he could trust. But Bentley had shown him a reason he could: Higgins had not forgotten his part of the bargain. He intended to keep his word; he hoped Cooper would also come to know of this. He had so much more he wanted to know, discover. Trust was a precious thing, something which he would not let go of so easily, not without absolute proof. The path ahead was dark, covered with many shadows, but he persisted to forge on.

The group halted at the tip of a precarious precipice; the very edge of which appeared to have been blown away in some kind of explosion. A few wooden stakes remained, and the metallic shards of a destroyed control panel. Down on the beach below the cliff there were piles of debris, a metal hook, more wooden planks and more remnants of the control panel. Deduction: Sly Cooper had been this way; so now they would follow. Carmelita stepped to the charred edge of the cliff, looking across the water to the boat, hands on hips. Across the way from them Higgins could see a large folded drawbridge, hugging the boat's side. Carmelita slipped out her pistol from its holster: that was now their entry.

There were no shouts, so no guards must have spotted them. Higgins noted the immense assault battery situated atop the deck. Even rocket launching tubes and grappling hooks. These were what had obviously done the damage, obliterated the cliff. Clearly they had been eager to off the raccoon. Higgins peered over the thirty-foot drop; he saw no splashing or bubbles; the water was clear and calm. Sly Cooper must have survived: after Carmelita's clever ruse with the file, starting this whole case, which was somewhat encouraging. Higgins guessed she had her own personal reasons for capturing Sly, besides the purposes of Interpol. He was glad for her, satisfied she could prove herself.

He glanced back at Bentley and Murray. The orders had already been given: once they had gained entry, they would have to take them into custody, then Sly. He sniffed, but knew it was a necessary deed. But he would see to this, sort it out, see that they were not locked behind bars and left to rot, forgotten like any other criminal. This trio of friends were not ordinary people: they displayed so. There were things that could be done, in the future, in time. He believed it true: so, he hoped, was he not the only one. Maybe the world just wasn't ready to accept it yet. But it could wait, because these things were simply worth waiting for.

Carmelita raised the pistol: with a shout in rapid French Pierre, Dubois and O'Conner each unsheathed silver beasts from holsters strapped to their backs. Each weapon was clearly identifiable as a Heckler &amp; Koch made MP-7, not normally used in law enforcement, but a good precaution when dealing with criminals of this magnitude. Pierre, Dubois and O'Connor lowered their MP-7s at Carmelita's word, gazing down their sights at the drawbridge. Carmelita then raised her shock pistol and shouted "allez-vous''. Instantly each MP-7 went off, their fire stretching out in long fingers of orange. Then a loud crack of metal chains snapping and a groan, as each MP-7 struck the winches supporting the bridge. With a loud clang the great timber drawbridge creaked forwards, extending outwards.

When it reached its zenith of extension the edge came to rest on the charred cliff edge. Carmelita turned back to her men, smiling grimly, as the threesome again holstered their MP-7s, barrels smoking slightly. Higgins took out his own Smith and Wesson, clicking it; loading a magazine.

Briefly he thought back to the building for the Interpol French branch back in Paris: of its mahogany desks and lavish mahogany furnishings. Of course those were very expensive and unusual. They had been rescued from an expansive German crime smuggling operation in 1997. In March of that year Interpol had found the furniture being shipped out of Amsterdam, coincidentally the same year Sir Nigel had 'disappeared'. The smuggling ring had thus been cracked wide open.

The fabulously wealthy aristocrat who owned the collection, an Austrian by nationality, had rewarded the efforts of Barkley's department by donating a portion of his collection for their offices and other quarters. That was why the expensive furnishings were ever there at all. Higgins chuckled and sighed to himself: outsiders would think it looked very odd indeed. But even crime fighting did not come without its own material rewards. Who knew what wealth of Sir Raleigh's they would have to take into custody and return to various institutions tonight. No one had ever linked the incident back to the involvement of the Vortex.

Everyone then returned Carmelita's grim smile and all of them removed weapons. Most had Smith and Wesson's, but some also carried Berettas. Bentley and Murray hitched knowing looks onto their faces, ready for and aware of what was to come. They understood what must be done, things just were that way. Pierre gave a curt nod and Dubois fixed his gaze on the Cooper twosome: in just a few minutes.

Unknown to the officers, however, Bentley held a small device in his hand: a device which he had readied since leaving the vehicles in the clearing. It was about the size of a baseball, black in colour with one red button on it. It was, in other terms, a small but potent smoke bomb. It was not harmful but would give Murray and himself the cover to get back to the van while Interpol took down Sir Raleigh. There they would wait for Sly's Binoc-u-Com call, waiting for the moment to move in and pick-up their friend when he needed them. Bentley was not one to shirk a schedule either. They would be there – he just needed to wait for the right moment. Today was not the right time for Interpol to capture them.

For the present moment though, Bentley could not know of the dormant transmitter placed on the Cooper van by a certain agent of the NICE – someone even now in their midst. That would be discovered later, much later: once the complications of the grand machination they were now part of began to unravel and reveal their inner workings.

Bentley did not know what his future held, but that prospect was not in it here and now. Now he and Murray had their job to do. He was only sorry with his emphasis on etiquette that thieves and police could not part on better terms. _Oh well,_ he thought, _decent people like this can understand when the time demands it. We'll get there, somewhere, when we are all ready_ _to do so_. The turtle placed his left index finger on the red button, waiting to press it. Murray nodded, he himself prepared for the plunge.

Carmelita in front, leading with her shock pistol raised, advanced at the head of the party. Everyone else followed cautiously, watching for any signs of Eric Winchester Raleigh's army of thugs. But none yet came; it was silent as the grave. Only the small rivulets and waves of water splashed quietly against the boat's hull. Every officer had his weapon raised, waiting and watching. All were hoping the first report back to Barkley in Versailles would include all who had left several days ago. Dubois and O'Connor had readied themselves, training their weapons precisely on Bentley and Murray, cuffs in hand. Carmelita keyed her radio, Pierre clicked his gun and Higgins gulped; as they reached the centre of the drawbridge. Somewhere in there was a vicious criminal, as well as the not-really-at-all-vicious thief Sly Cooper.

#

Detective Timothy John Winthrop, his teeth chattering, advanced beside Carmelita. He was shaking so much due to nerves that he barely could maintain a grip on his pistol. He began to feel a cold sweat running down his back. He had a strange feeling; the feeling that someone unseen was watching them. But still, he wanted to be brave. Like the vixen he could hardly take his eyes off, he wanted to prove himself. And this was his chance. Somewhere inside him – his mind said – was the red panda that could do this. He just needed to have courage and dare to go forwards into the unknown. And remember the importance of his personal choices on the way through. He fastened his grip on the pistol, pulled his jacket close and assigned his face a stiff upper lip.

As such the small red panda, trying his hardest to be brave like his friends, did not notice the hidden tentacle-armed figure, eyes red with fury, observing them from the boat's deck.

#

The Interpol party was three quarters of the way across the bridge when suddenly a tremendous sound rang out. Carmelita snapped her head up and saw a storm of bullets rain down towards them. The distinctive firing noise of P-90 assault rifles was heard as the officers – as well as the terribly shocked box turtle and hippo – scattered, looking for cover. Carmelita loosed some rounds of her own, missing their unseen attackers, but illuminating the rain-spattered sky. The red fox fell to her stomach, pushing her shoulders and bosom up to glance again at the deck. She could now just see some dark shapes there, firing down at them. The drawbridge entered the boat below this part of the deck, into the hollow hull.

But a spiral metal staircase to the left of this entrance wound up to the deck – where they needed to go. Carmelita jumped up and shouted, bringing the group forward, ducking and weaving under the face of gunfire. The bulbous shape of the blimp above the boat – the device, the storm machine that appeared to be causing the torrential downpour - was lost as they ducked for cover behind the drawbridge's cavernous entrance. All panting, their chests rising and falling dramatically, they stood and waited as the gunfire ceased. There were some shouts and the sounds of feet running on wet wood - then, for the moment, silence.

Now was the time to advance to the deck and themselves make a surprise attack. Then find Sir Raleigh and Sly and bring this place down for good. Carmelita placed a gloved hand on her rising and falling chest, steadying her breathing. A thin veil of sweat and rain water ran down her face. After a few seconds she flicked her head, shaking her dark blue curls and ponytail: this gave the signal to her men. In single file they made for the spiral staircase. Dubois and O'Connor again trained their Smith and Wesson's on Bentley and Murray, waiting for Pierre's gesture. Higgins gulped, awaiting the next attack, but watching these exchanges. He just couldn't know what to think right now.

After adjusting her tube top firmly in place, Carmelita brought up her pistol and rose up the first step, ears pricked for gunfire sounds. The single column of Interpol officers, captains and detectives followed suit.

_I'll find you Sly; I will find you, thought Carmelita. I'm not going to give up on you that easily, cheeky ring-tail. _

She couldn't help smiling again to herself, though still feeling very much confused in her emotions.

Behind her Higgins had many thoughts, but one most prominently being: _oh my, what have we gotten ourselves into now. Regardless though, I will come and face it – somebody out there needs me to do this, they're counting on me._

Winthrop just gulped, remembering Carmelita's words of encouragement to him earlier – he could be brave. Pierre said nothing, thought nothing, but had a strangely blank look on his face. Only briefly did this look change, into a frightening and unexpected look of venom when he glanced back at the two thieves. But nobody saw this. Bentley, however, had caught Dubois in his peripheral vision and tensed a little, his breathing heavy and glasses fogging somewhat, knowing now the moment was imminent. He glanced at Murray, who nodded grimly, then at Carmelita, and then back down again.

His finger tensed on the smoke bomb's trigger, thinking about Sly.

Murray also thought about Sly, was worried and concerned for his friend. All three of them, each of them, were only about an even twenty-one years of age, one reason why they were so close knit with each other from the start: a young age to risk being tortured or killed by a maniacal villain. He hoped, together – somehow – they could face it, prove they had it take this on. He was also confused: what would this mean for him – them - in the end? One of his thoughts then came foremost to his mind.

Regardless of anything that had happened up until now, one thing was certain: all hell had just broken lose on the Isle of Wrath.

**Part 1 of Chapter 13 of 13 in Part 2.**  
**It seemed simple at first, but now many more parties are involved in the gradually building climax.**  
**Unbeknownst to the Cooper Gang, the success of their mission is only the tip of a far larger sword - going on for thousands of years...**  
**Well, I hope you enjoyed that small snippet. It's been on my mind all the time and I am working to complete this chapter and beyond.**  
**The next update should be very soon, hopefully. Happy reading, Creative Raccoon.**


	18. Chapter 16 - Part II

**Chapter 16 - Part 2: Coming of the Storm.**

**Author's Note: Sorry about the large delay. I have been working on it, but have also been busy with other things too. I also encountered some minor writer's block, which you may understand after reading this part. I hope you enjoy this part - all new plot threads will be explained and expanded.**

**Interpol Secure Telecommunications Post, San José – Costa Rica: 1:45 AM.**

The Yamaha-made radio burbled away in the corner of the office, up on a wooden shelf; a shelf it shared with several dividers stuffed with papers and a bottle of mosquito repellent. Right now some strange composition that sounded like an orchestral score was playing. It was the latest piece composed by Catherine Anne-Marie Decibel, an English composer and musician who was generally slurred by critics for her poor musical talent – this was being kind; she really lacked any musical talent. And this latest composition was no exception to the rule. But Henri Braskel let the music blend in with the sound of the whirring ceiling fan, and the buzzing mosquitoes, passing the contraption by with a stack of clipped papers under his left arm.

The odd warbling sound of the elephant's composition, mixed with the sounds of the office – not to mention the city outside – made for a dense atmosphere, besides the thick and sluggish heat that was characteristic of San José this time of year. Braskel was forty-five, not underweight or overweight, and a cryptanalyst and officer working for Interpol. He was used to the weather of Costa Rica, where he had been posted for eleven months now. The chameleon glanced out a window as he passed it, where he glimpsed the gleaming city of San José, the lush green jungle beyond it. On a good day he might just see the royal blue strip that represented the Pacific Ocean. Ironic then that it was now very early morning and still dark.

Braskel brushed by a young sun-tanned man called Simon Miguel, a native of Guatemala, and a talented computer technician who worked with Braskel. He had arrived just four months ago, compared to Braskel's seven years in the service; and now the chameleon had taught him all he knew. The twenty-five year-old lynx was very promising and Braskel liked him. He nodded to Miguel as he passed, as the latter sat down at a desk near the window, setting to work on his Apple Mac laptop. Right now Braskel's own attention was focused on the stack of papers under his arm: allegedly containing information of a curious and 'essential' nature - the night lights of the city gleamed in the corners of his eyes.

Something to do with a disappeared ex-Interpol agent, a gang of infamous criminals, some 'master thief', a disappeared genius inventor, his lost weapon – feared to be in the hands of some foreign force – and a whole bunch of co-ordinates and other jargon. A station in Mexico had intercepted it all by satellite and sent it down to Braskel, the closest expert on the subject. So now it was his job to figure out what it all meant. Interpol had been picking up a lot of interesting information on its satellites in the last twelve months – spy satellites just seemed to be everywhere these days. Braskel, finally flopping down at his desk – dropping the papers into his tray – grabbed a post-it note stuck to his computer keyboard and made a note to keep it handy: the international call number of the Interpol branch in Paris. Barkley would want to know of this, surely.

The chameleon rummaged through a drawer, then withdrew a USB stick. He jammed it into his hard drive and booted up the computer, its screen glowing blue. Swiftly, without looking, he keyed in his password and came to the desktop. With the mouse he clicked on a folder in the left top corner of his screen, and it opened. The USB was filled with PDF files of the papers contained in his pile, sent from the post in Mexico. Once he had opened the first file – a scroll down list of telephone call intercepts – Braskel pulled open another drawer and pushed each paper into its proper, alphabetically listed placed. He shoved the drawer shut and returned his attention to the computer.

He also opened two other PDF files, which loomed up around the first on the screen. One was a Xerox photocopy of some manuscript, written around the time of the Spanish conquest of the Americas. In fact it was the somewhat forgotten Chumayel manuscript, detailing the final details of the once mighty Mayan empire, especially the old city of Chichén Itzá with its famous cenotes. It was apparently linked with some gangster cartel in Middle America, according to intelligence. Just recently he had heard that a Canadian anthropologist from the University of Toronto had come to Mexico to investigate a potential plot of this cartel, backed by the UN. He opened the file as he found this unusual and interesting. It could be important – especially if some gangster was suddenly and suspiciously interested in ancient Mayan artefacts. Something was not right there.

The other PDF flicked open: it contained a whole bunch of scanned pages in a swirly scrawl from some Egyptian archaeologist's notebook. Apparently the man had been down in the Sudan, examining an archaeological site two-hundred metres north-east of Khartoum. From Braskel's vague knowledge of the subject he knew this was the site of the pyramids of Meroë, the original capital of the kingdom of Kush. Although the structures had been built around 300 BC, it was supposed, this man had found a structure that had appeared older, much older; roughly 4,000 years, such as many structures of the earlier Egypt. And on this structure he had found a most curious inscription. Apparently these notes had reached Braskel's hands because an artefact smuggling ring had recently tried to desecrate the site and make off with many of its treasures. The Sudanese government, already unstable, had asked Interpol to step in and see what the criminals might be getting at. So Braskel scrolled down the page and found the inscription, copied as follows:

_Through the centuries we have risen -_  
_To the ordinary eye unbidden._  
_We are great and we are strong -_  
_For our power we have waited long._  
_Yet our time has not yet come -_  
_The mortal battle between father and son._  
_So despite the guardian eagle of the skies -_  
_The Guild of Thieves shall one day rise._

Braskel curiously read the passage once, then once more. It didn't mean anything to him really, at least not what he could readily make out. All that seemed of interest was this 'Guild of Thieves' mentioned in the eighth line. He sighed, and then closed this document, along with the PDF of the Chumayel manuscript. These were both of lesser importance than the list of intercepted telephone calls and e-mails he had to trawl through, intercepted by the satellite.  
Interpol had already agreed to assist the Sudanese with their own team, and UN forces were already on the standby for the case in Mexico. Braskel was just one of the boys working behind the scenes, helping the operation run smoothly. So that meant his given job, as a cryptanalyst, was to tackle the list of communications intercepts. The other jobs would be taken care of by those superior to him: Braskel was understandably unaware at that time of the sheer importance of what he had just read.  
Braskel clicked his mouse on the PDF list of communications and brought it up. Today was Wednesday 4th of September, 2002 – the first message, sender unknown, was dated at Tuesday September 3rd, 2002. The list had been translated from, oddly enough, Afrikaans.

**COMM-SAT SECURE WIRE TRACE E/15A-2  
DIA-SPACEDIV-PENT-DC  
OPERATOR: R19-007  
SOURCE: CAPE-TOWN/SOUTH-AFRICA**

**03-SEPTEMBER ~ 19:33:45 ~ AFRIKAANS – ENGLISH**

**Voice 1: Agent Beta has now been placed into the Interpol mission. Time is limited for Sly Cooper.**

**Voice 2: Excellent – Major Biggs is on the tail of Ivanovo. He should allow us the extra information we need to locate the Spear-Head. Ensure Beta does not reveal himself until operation is at go.**

**Voice 1: Understood. An infiltration team is already placed to obtain the Delta 7. Our extraction team will place the device at Easter Island to prepare for the plan.**

**Voice 2: It is essential, then, that we place the device where I have instructed. It must be positioned in the base of Rano Kao, if we are to produce the effect required. But that will only be the precursor – the Spear-Head will also be used as thus to assert our position; get it.**

**Voice 1: Under cover of the port at Hanga Roa we can bring the components into the south-western headland unnoticed. The summit sits at 410 metres: an ideal location for the base of operations after we set off Delta 7: if the free world governments do not agree to our actions after that, then we shall detonate the Spear-Head, if we have it following Cooper's destruction.**

**Voice 2: I am pleased with this progress. Make sure to comb the island for the traces of thorium-238. The Moai have all shown detected traces, besides the tuff and obsidian. Controlling the metal at all three locations will be essential too, especially for the Spear-Head.**

**Voice 1: The Vortex – Stringer himself – will hopefully be liquated, along with The Fiendish Five if we can rely on Beta to succeed unnoticed. We must do both to push our goal and control all three deposits of the thorium-238. We also obtained several canisters of concentrated radon-220 gas.**

**Voice 2: The Easter Island operation is well underway then, within the extinct volcano. Even the USA and the bumbling President Bush cannot defy us now. Not with their own weapon behind us soon. Only Cooper could threaten our goals; now that he has come to fight the five, as we thought, that threat may be at last eliminated accordingly.**

**Voice 1: Biggs' capture of Ivanovo is imminent, but we have lost Stringer for now. Sir Nigel is likely to be working close to this mission, undercover. Maybe we can nab him too; once we also gain the parts Stringer has probably supplied the five; courtesy of Sly Cooper and his gang. Beta's device, placed on the Cooper van, will be our last resort should Ivanovo not yield the information.**

**Voice 2: That is all true. The involvement of Sir Nigel's son has complicated matters slightly. Not to mention Inspector Carmelita Fox. Just keep the matter monitored, as has been done. Meanwhile I will personally maintain operations at Table Mountain – until I am needed at Easter Island.**

**Voice 1: And all the while they will never know what happened to Interpol agent Lydia Stromberg.**

**Voice 2: Not until I make the plan apparent to every first world nation on this planet. But do not mention that name carelessly; I cannot afford that.**

**Voice 1: Understood, Alpha. You will also be pleased to know that we have pinpointed every location of thorium-238. From here on in I have obtained the co-ordinates so we need not always mention the locations, buying us the time to build our plan. The Pyrenees, Easter Island of course, and the Svalbard Archipelago – Lågøya Island specifically. There we shall destroy the five's master.**

**Voice 2: I have those coordinates here:**  
**PM – 42.6700°N, 0.6578°E**  
**SA – 78.0000°N, 16.0000°E/LI– 80.1667°N, 18.0000°E**  
**EI – 27.1167°S, 109.3667°W**  
**Luckily for us these are the only significant deposits of this rare thorium isotope.**

**Voice 1: I am glad my boys in the DIA have succeeded. DARPA was also easy to infiltrate. This mission is going smoothly thus far then. It shall all hinge on the destruction of Cooper, Stringer and the Fiendish Five on Lågøya Island. That will be the point we sabotage The Master's own plan and obtain the Spear-Head. Beta may need to surreptitiously remove Fox from the picture then.**

**Voice 2: My own NICE agents have been watching her since Barkley promoted her during the Diva Diamond case. It is sad but true: her sympathy displayed to Cooper is a threat and one which must be eliminated. Beta will watch her closely.**

**Voice 1: So it will all end at that volcano, the Krakov Volcano. And we shall have the world's most precious metal at our disposal. Back in 1983 Stringer's Vortex already tried to take it back in the Pyrenees. But now it shall be ours: even today's science does not fully understand it. The only metal on the planet that will never corrode under normal conditions; it will be our sole strength.**

**Voice 2: The world will thusly know justice, in the only true way possible: total anarchy. Anarchy in the highest areas of government; the time has come. All we have to do now is wait out this mission and prepare ourselves. Hopefully lives can be spared. I have already seen many mistakes been made during my time with Interpol.**

**Voice 1: McShellson and Stringer never knew we were watching, waiting from the beginning. Now they will know the consequences. Their invention will be used in its true terrible purpose.**

**Voice 2: exactly. Now it has begun, nothing can stop us. The new order always depended on how long every one of these criminals and deceitful inventors would live. Now the world will know my plan, that which I have prepared for years. The world will tremble before our new order.**

**END COMM-SAT SECURE WIRE TRACE E/15A-2**

Braskel gulped for a moment, staring at the phone conversation transcript on his Windows screen. Something was wrong, terribly wrong here. _Who the heck were the NICE – it must have been an acronym for something. _As for the mention of the mysterious disappearance of Agent Stromberg in June 29th of 1990; on a Triads busting mission in Hong Kong; that did not bode well - Braskel did not like it. Interpol agents didn't just go missing. He felt distinct unease when the transcript had mentioned the DIA and DARPA. Somebody was influencing major world security and he wanted to know who. Not to mention the infiltration of the Interpol mission against The Fiendish Five, involving Sly Cooper: these guys, whoever they were, seemed to be everywhere.

And if they were targeting Delta 7, then they must be planning something big; huge in fact. Easter Island of course sat on the Easter Fracture zone. With a weapon like Delta 7 in their power, Braskel shuddered to think what this NICE would do: the Easter Fracture zone was situated in a place which would hit not only South America, but North America and Oceania besides. And then the Spear-Head, the infamous invention of McShellson and Stringer: gone missing in 1997. Since his son, Bentley, had arrived at the orphanage in France in 1981, McShellson had allegedly been unaware of his friend's intended betrayal and power grab on their invention.

He had never known that Stringer had formed and began to build his criminal syndicate now called the Vortex. For sixteen whole years until June 1997 he appeared to have known nothing. And then Stringer had sprung and Sir Nigel had simply disappeared, with most traces of the Spear-Head. His wife had also disappeared around the same time. Although McShellson had been unaware of Interpol monitoring Stringer's actions since 1987, when suspicions arouse, he had never suspected a thing; he had simply trusted his friend. And now both were gone, but Stringer appeared to be planning something big, very big.

Surely Sir Nigel would be coming back, but no one could know yet what had truly happened. At the present moment any leads to this rapidly unfolding case were important. What worried Braskel most were the repercussions of and why Stringer had betrayed Sir Nigel in the first place – he was not convinced anyone except the turtle or weasel knew the whole picture. Some more digging would be required.

Hurriedly, flicking over to the next transcript – which was comparatively very short – Braskel shoved a sheet of paper into his fax machine and sent off an urgent message to the White House. He had been authorised by his government to do so should any significant facts arise. The mention of Delta 7 had been more than enough to warrant that. Then would come some e-mails and telephone calls direct to Barkley in Versailles - someone would have to get to the bottom of this.

As the fax machine hummed away beside him, Braskel glanced at the next transcript, very similar to before. But at the same time he still thought of the first transcript. It had also mentioned thorium-238, a little known and fantastical isotope in the science community that supposedly, in its metallic state, lasted for a half-life of 36.07 billion years. Braskel also knew that when dissolved it formed the highly concentrated radon-220 gas, far more concentrated than ordinary thorium. It would be like a virus, able to kill quickly and efficiently – deadly, in other words. The transcript had mentioned canisters of the substance on Easter Island. That was not at all a good sign: this Alpha person had big plans, and that scared him.

Tulio Sanchez, a research scientist working in a building across the street, had been the one who had briefed Braskel on the thorium a month ago. He too would be frightened by this news: even now Braskel could imagine President Bush going off at the White House. After all, thorium-238 was known to only breakdown at extremely high temperatures and, when treated properly, is practically immortal in strength, remaining pristine; and now it was in the hands of some worldwide enemy. Many things would need to be done to crack this suddenly expansive case. Keeping everything in mind, especially what seemed like the now pivotal Interpol mission against The Fiendish Five, Braskel read the second phone transcript:

**COMM-SAT SECURE WIRE TRACE E/13A-2  
DIA-SPACEDIV-PENT-DC  
OPERATOR: R19-007  
SOURCE: NORFOLK ISLAND/AUSTRALIA**

**02-SEPTEMBER ~ 04:29:56 ~ ENGLISH – ENGLISH**

**Voice 1: The final stages of our machination are now in motion – the guild is rising.**

**Voice 2: So Cooper has finally come to face the Clockwerk, the final and ultimate test.**

**Voice 1: Yes, and whether he triumphs or fails, then we shall know.**

**Voice 2: We have been waiting for this day, and finally the game is back on.**

**Voice 1: Indeed, and Cooper cannot comprehend; even know that he plays out our scheme. The masterstroke devised by all my predecessors; the position I have now come to assume.**

**Voice 2: We are strong, and no one has yet to discover the extent of the guild. No one, no thief even, has ever known that we have always been present, manipulating events all along.**

**Voice 1: Exactly – and now the time has almost come that we can reveal ourselves. Cooper's final battle shall decide what happens - then the Clockwerk, which we have primed for centuries, shall no longer be required; another accessory to our greater plan, for the greater good.**

**Voice 2: And with the completion of the Clockwerk's mission, The Fiendish Five will either continue as if nothing ever happened or be destroyed in the process.**

**Voice 1: As planned. And now Edward Lectric, or Agent Electro-Borg, will monitor our progress in the matter. All we truly need to do now is to wait. Then the time for action – whether or not Cooper survives – will come. Maybe the boy will learn of his father's darkest secrets; secrets which he never knew but we did and have been undoubtedly kept from him.**

**Voice 2: Connor was never what he appeared. And remember what really happened to his wife. If that even was Connor Cooper that night, which we assume, if we do not know the whole story then Cooper surely does not. Sly Cooper, the last Cooper, and his family, will finally be crushed.**

**Voice 1: I should think as much – Connor kept many secrets; secrets of a great and terrible nature to any who might have found out. Yes, the Clockwerk will likely succeed, after all those years of success against the Cooper lineage. And, as I stated, if it should not, then our greatest weapon, our greatest ever hoax to the world, has finally run its course. Plans can be replaced.**

**Voice 2: Partially thanks to the Clockwerk the lives of each Cooper, how long they lived, has determined the execution of our plan. Ultimately they will know that it was their lineage that made themselves great, and as such made themselves objects for us to tear down. Cooper will know that his life – the last Cooper – has made him responsible for the final end.**

**Voice 1: Indeed. And we shall not have to worry about the Vortex and Stringer, or that meddling Santiago Cartel and the KLAWW gang. Even the infamous NICE, who has remained hidden since their founding in late 1990. I was always suspicious of that Special Agent Stromberg. In any case their actions or of no consequence to us; the one true enemy and power.**

**Voice 2: And we have time, so much time; after many millennia of ensuring the Clockwerk carried out our goals, a facade – although powerful in itself – while we were the true masters. The guild shall rise, and no matter what, Cooper cannot destroy us: he will face it alone, in the end.**

**Voice 1: The Coopers have never known that the whole time their existence and actions have played out our greater plan. In the end they have determined how long this world shall live, and when it shall die. The time of the new regime – the true regime of thieves – is close. We are near the end, and Sly Cooper will be the finishing blow. Even if he survives, in the end, he must die.**

**END COMM-SAT SECURE WIRE TRACE E/13A-2**

Once again, Henri Braskel gawked for a moment at his screen. _He was staring at something big, something greater in scale than he could have ever thought. _And everything he had read seemed to have somehow become connected with the Interpol mission concerning The Fiendish Five and Sly Cooper himself. In some way or another each message he had read contained a plan that _hinged_ on the outcome of this Interpol mission. And there was the anomaly: something very important lurking around this thief.  
Braskel could not even begin to guess what that might be. _Lots of people must want this guy dead_, thought Braskel, _this has to be stopped_. The only thing he could know for sure was that this needed to be dealt with and someone high up should know. _Barkley, I'll get on the line to Barkley, _thought Braskel. _Actually – wait a minute – I think this should be forwarded first to the White House._

The chameleon grabbed another sheet from his desk – having just taken it with his Xerox – and shoved it into his fax machine. Removing the first sheet and shoving it into his bulging in-tray, Braskel returned to his computer as the second White House message was sent in a buzz of humming. Rubbing his head, Braskel quickly reached for a small box he kept in a lower draw and opened it – snacks for needy situations like this. Ripping the wrapper off of a Carman's Fruit and Nut muesli bar and taking an eager chomp, Braskel checked his post-it note and reminded himself to call Barkley when he had finished looking over the PDF documents. He should most definitely know now.

With some trepidation, guessing of some fantastic other plot, Braskel resumed reading.

The next communication transcript was even shorter than the other two. Braskel studied this one with even greater intensity. _And there was the mention of 'the guild' again. Hmm, I should probably write that down. _He jotted it on a post-it note. _There is something I am not getting here and I am going to get to the bottom of it as soon as I can. I don't like what is happening, what would seem to be anyway. It appears that at least two parties have designs on ruling the world and it all hinges on this one Interpol mission. Geez, there are some dangerous folks around in the world. At the moment it's almost like one guy in Counter-Intelligence against these major criminals. Well, we're going to crack this. Once I contact Barkley, we'll all be onto this case. Maybe the UN will even step in. Well something must be done and I hope we can all help that be done. At least the White House is the first step._

Braskel read the third transcript. It bore today's date, just about forty-five minutes ago.

**COMM-SAT SECURE WIRE TRACE E/17A-2  
DIA-SPACEDIV-PENT-DC  
OPERATOR: R19-007  
SOURCE: NORTH SEA – APPROXIMATE TO SVALBARD ARCHIPELAGO**

**04-SEPTEMBER ~ 01:03:21 ~ RUSSIAN – ENGLISH**

**Voice 1: I am en route for southern England – Wales. Cooper has almost defeated Sir Raleigh and the first of the four pieces is in danger. I will secure it. I may even find Sir Nigel McShellson.**

**Voice 2: You have proved yourself a loyal ally since offering your organisation and your device to me in 1987. Your friend was foolish to attempt and stifle you. But forget about Wales, it is already finished. Cooper will have the piece. He will head for Muggshot next no doubt – in Utah. Head there and wait for the thief, then get the piece. McShellson is sure to follow.**

**Voice 1: Understood. And the target has been decided?**

**Voice 2: The targets – for there shall now be two – have been decided. And Cerberus can be launched even without the Spear-Head. And in its wake shall follow my army; unstoppable just like my eternal foe. Their secrets used against them.**

**Voice 1: I couldn't be happier. So my role shall be to trail Cooper's mission and ensure the pieces are recovered, but he is not allowed to maintain them. Then to capture Sir Nigel when he reveals himself and we gain the final missing components. Despite Boris Ivanovo's work, our prototype has not been up to the original.**

**Voice 2: It does not matter. I am not doubtful that other parties shall be interested in our plans anyway. Watch out for anybody attempting to thwart your mission. Do not fail. Your success also ensures the empowerment of your organisation. It all hinged on Cooper and you arrived in time to act. As such I have also chosen the activation date for Cerberus, with or without the Spear-Head.**

**Voice 1: That is most desirable. So my device is not essential to your initial plan and drawing out Cooper; but I must ensure he does not ally with Sir Nigel and gain all the pieces, including the ones I trusted to your four members of the five. Cerberus will go ahead with or without Cooper. But I should also draw him to this island, controlling him according to our purpose.**

**Voice 2: That is correct. There must not be any rivals to my power. And the Spear-head in hands other than ours would pose that danger. Your role is to simply ensure we have it or not at all – no one else but myself. Then draw Cooper in to me and sever all links while my ultimate plan is carried out. That is simply your mission: to ensure my plan's stability before and after Cerberus.**

**Voice1: I shall attempt to honour that agreement. I also have my own plans to secure our power base. But what of your four other associates that make up the five?**

**Voice 2: They shall attempt to thwart Cooper and protect their pieces as they see fit. If they succeed then we will have the Spear-Head, but must draw Sir Nigel into the open. There cannot be any resistance during my new regime. They will all be wiped out – all of them.**

**Voice 1: If Cooper is to fall prematurely I will regain the pieces your associates possess and then we draw Sir Nigel out when he knows the threat of Cerberus is real. But no doubt it would be a great victory if you were to personally defeat Cooper too. When the time is right I will leak the information so that my position is secure and Cooper will come to you at the desired time.**

**Voice 2: Yes, Cooper will be drawn to me when I see fit, however this shall all eventuate. I have many plans, many ways to succeed. But this is my greatest. Time is short – the date for Cerberus will be that of 11/09/2002, the one year anniversary of the al-Qaeda strikes in New York City. That will ignite the flame I need.**

**Voice 1: The strike will occur at exactly 8:46 AM, nullifying the first target. Then the strike on the second target shall occur at 10:28 AM, the starting and ending times of the al-Qaeda attacks. We shall be able to then extend to other targets, increase our range, once we secure the Spear-Head.**

**Voice 2: To an extent it is amazing that Cooper never realised his life span would determine my plan – determined by when he came to face me. Now the true machination can be set in motion. I know all shall succeed, because Sly Cooper has come to face his end. Ironically everyone will now be after Sly Cooper, once they realise what I intend for every miserable person on this planet. At the moment of his death – as would be fit to his line – Sly will be the world's most-wanted man.**

**Voice 1: As of today, then, there are seven days left before Cerberus initiates. Within that time I will dictate Cooper's mission and secure the Spear-Head for our future. I will set about establishing our power base, beginning with the fall of Cooper. There is not long to go now. He can no longer stop the ultimate plan.**

**Voice 2: True, but do not be too sure. That was how the Coopers defeated me many thousands of years ago; an excess of arrogance and deceit. These last seven days will be important. I have initiated the countdown. Time is short for the last Cooper. But he can still be a threat. Remember, your task is to recover your device and bring Cooper to me or foil him. Secure my plan.**

**Voice 1: And then power is ours for the taking. And you will truly be the world's greatest thief. I will endeavour to achieve our goals. I always guessed you were preparing for this day. And now I too am ready for it. A glorious new empire will be born. So in these last seven days, decided by the last Cooper, we shall set about ensuring no threats remain to your absolute dominance.**

**Voice 2: And the task I have given you is yours alone, for you were born for it. Only to have your friend steal it away –steal away your destiny as did the Coopers to me. Cooper will try for Utah next, so go there. And there you shall watch him fail, ensuring he does, knowing that in the end he could never match my strength. In failing to retrieve his family's book he will know I was always superior, that my last true rival is gone.**

**Voice 1: He cannot possibly discover Cerberus in time. The world will crumble before he even knows about your great machination.**

**Voice 2: That is not to matter, for he shall be drawn to me as appropriate. It is a simple matter of waiting. After Cerberus there will be little he can do. Let him do as he pleases but do not let him become a greater threat than he already is. Feed him information about the plan, then – if it seems right – give him signs that he should come here immediately, but not before: If he is to come here of his own accord before facing my associates, kill him immediately – control him.**

**Voice 1: If your associates cannot do that then I shall succeed in doing so. I have utilised my comrades in the coalition of the Vortex. We are watching for Cooper in these final days. And no one shall escape our net. I promise it.**

**Voice 2: Good; I trust you not to fail for it is time. Sly Cooper will know that thinks to his lineage I have been building an army the likes of which the world has never seen. Whether or not he lives to see it, whether or not he fails to protect his family's book or the Spear-Head, he will know it was the name of Sly Cooper that finished this wretched world. The end is coming, at last.**

**END COMM-SAT SECURE WIRE TRACE E/17A-2**

Braskel gaped in abject horror. _Oh no, oh no, oh no! Keep calm Henri, keep calm! _He had just inadvertently uncovered some mass plot which would be operative in seven days, obliterating some targets he was still unaware of. He had just those seven days to see to this and ensure they got to this madman before he did something terrible: from what it sounded like it could be a whole new war against the United States, a new cold war even. Braskel shoved another sheet of paper into his fax machine and sent it through. The White House needed to know of this right now. They had seven days before some lunatic destroyed some major target. And all this had been going on right under their noses.

Braskel had a horrible inkling suspicion that this was all somehow connected to the mission operated by Interpol against The Fiendish Five. Somebody at the highest levels of this criminal collective had a terrible plan and they had just the given seven days to crack it. With the Interpol team in the midst of it, this would surely concern Barkley. Not to mention the NICE and the strange Vortex. Then there was the mysterious guild, possibly connected to the ancient carving at Meroë. And even the infamous Santiago Cartel, who now made Braskel think that they were tied into the aftermath of this at least. In any case all of the parties seemed somehow involved in this singular mission. In one office in San José, Costa Rica, this Interpol mission had become the most important in the free world. Everything must be at stake. And in those remaining seven days, one other thing was certain: Sly Cooper.

For whatever reason everyone wanted him now: the NICE, the Vortex, the Fiendish Five and even the mysterious 'Guild of Thieves'. All of their transcripts had mentioned the thief. And as the third one had aptly said, Sly Cooper would now be the most wanted man in the world. Incredibly this one thief could now be the key to it all, and both sides wanted him. Even now Braskel could picture President George W. Bush junior mobilising his forces to secure everything from Easter Island to a mountain village in the Pyrenees.

But these criminals were clever and thus far stayed one step ahead in the game; something which didn't seem likely to change. Yes, they all needed Sly Cooper. And now Barkley's small force seemed like the only ones who could get to him. Retrieve him in time before the seven days expired and some major sight was destroyed. Without causing this nutcase to set-off this 'Cerberus' early. All in that instant every first-world country or powerful nation had begun mobilising their forces, blissfully unaware of the monumental horrors they truly faced, an enemy as old as time. Carmelita's party, in just those words, had become possibly the most important people in the free world. And their target now: Sly Cooper. And the destruction of this enemy within seven days, at all costs.

With the clock behind him seemingly starting to speed up, accentuating the lack of time he now possessed, Braskel quickly scanned the fourth and last transcript. And then he saw something which made his blood run cold. He saw that this transcript was similarly addressed, originating somewhere from within the Svalbard Archipelago, though the satellite had not been able to pin-point the exact island. _The archipelago must be where the villain is hiding out, _he thought._ But we cannot dare go there until we have Sly Cooper. Whoever this entity is he or she is ruthless and will do anything to ensure their triumph. _Braskel was already fully aware of the many UN forces who had probed the farthest depths of Svalbard and then never been heard from again. This case bore an eerie resemblance – they must be all connected.

The fax machine continued to whir away behind Braskel, hunched over his computer. Interpol needed to know that they were in danger. The UN forces needed to be mobilised. But for all purposes the Interpol force was just about on their own. They had been sucked into a net which had tightened around them and now had begun to draw them in. And these criminal forces had the greatest possible leverage against them, if they attempted anything to thwart them openly: this one great 'leader' or 'master' was holding the world at ransom: a price which simply could not be payed.

Ironically Sly Cooper now seemed like the one link that could lead to their salvation. But if not, then Braskel himself would be happy to die trying in stopping this madman. The free world could not give up against this threat, or else it would be simply gone with the wind in the end. Braskel grabbed his phone, and brought up his email box, ready to contact Barkley's head office in Paris after he read the last transcript; for the terrible information he had just read revealed the _targets _of Cerberus. And he must act.

Braskel read on feverishly.

**COMM-SAT SECURE WIRE TRACE E/11A-2**  
**DIA-SPACEDIV-PENT-DC**  
**OPERATOR: R19-007**  
**SOURCE: WU SHAN VILLAGE – KUNLUN MOUNTAINS - CHINA**

**01-SEPTEMBER ~ 23:44:33 ~ MANDARIN – ENGLISH**

**Voice 1: The time draws near, master. I am preparing your personal arsenal; a unique mixture of gun powder and your thorium-238 encased in my fireworks. As you ordered; a deadly weapon, that can kill within three minutes of inhaling the gaseous virus.**

**Voice 2: You have done well, King. Cooper is almost upon us, I sense it. And when he comes, the world will tremble. The world will be afraid and everyone will want Sly Cooper. He shall be the most wanted thief in history. Thanks to me: fitting for his final act.**

**Voice 1: Yes master; and when he does, I shall do my part. Many fireworks are already prepared. No nation will stop us now. Even Tsao cannot pose a threat to my operation.**

**Voice 2: Excellent, King. That warlord is an enemy that must be dealt with in time, but no matter now. The Norwegian and Russian governments thought that this volcano was dormant. But I shall now prove that the mighty Krakov is very much alive: those foolish scientists – worms.**

**Voice 1: Master, I will require more shipments of your precious thorium isotope to continue production in three days time; September 4**

**th - to make its gaseous state potent enough.**

**Voice 2: And you shall have it, my loyal aid. Your fireworks will provide an unstoppable weapon to enforce my new regime – essential to my plan. Even without the Spear-Head, as I am unable to locate McShellson, Cerberus can be used on North-East Asia and Europe. Then I will need it. That is when your fireworks come in to my plan. To enforce my rule until Cerberus is globally operative.**

**Voice 1: Excellent master. And you have decided your targets? With Europe alone under your thumb you shall be feared. Not to mention the valuable 'resources' in the Middle-East.**

**Voice 2: The danger of the Spear-Head aside King – for its eventual location I rely on our alliance with the Vortex – yes, I have determined some suitable targets. My primary target, as Stringer also agreed on – the first for Cerberus: Jerusalem. Religion holds an inexcusable sway in this world and that will send the message. Really the magnetic power of the earth's core, Muslims, Jews and Christians alike will assume god's wrath has wiped clean their monumental city – judgement day.**

**Voice 1: Yes, and with its destruction we shall likely trigger a new war with the US. When your army shall come and exact true judgment on this wretched world - and the other?**

**Voice 2: When Cooper is coming for us and I know his final days will allow me to begin the Cerberus countdown – for he is my one true threat, what he symbolises – I will also set to fire on the second of our two primary targets, the same motive as before. With my own legacy asserted over the Coopers, my defining moment of absolute victory, then we shall destroy the holy city of Mecca, or its truer name Makkah. A Muslim uprising and the world is in chaos, due to my power.**

**Voice 1: And with the help of Muggshot and Ruby at least, if Raleigh is captured, we shall hold a powerful sway. Few threats shall conquer you, my master. Even if Cooper is alive after the two primary targets have been eliminated he shall be easily rooted out, I should think, and any resistance eventually snuffed out.**

**Voice 2: Yes, because I wanted to show the world that the Coopers were nothing without their precious book. And at last that time has arrived. That is why I spared Sly. The others cannot know but I confide this in you, King. My most loyal aid – little know of your true and dark past.**

**Voice 1: That is true, but it cannot be helped. I will find Jing again someday; rescue her.**

**Voice 2: But don't let that be your weakness. I myself was almost defeated by a long-forgotten Cooper, whose secrets are now buried deep within the Yucatan, due to sparing that last chance of affection. Who knows if Sly ever or shall ever discover him. That is not important to me.**

**Voice 1: Of course, I forgot myself. Though surely you are suspicious that someone else has been working alongside the Coopers; even as a rival to both of you perhaps?**

**Voice 2: Hardly. Besides, no one shall ever truly destroy me; for I – master of the five -, I am my one and only true master. And to enforce that I shall also destroy other targets, once the Spear-Head has been retrieved for my uses: and when Stringer's use has run out – kill him. He will be nothing but a threat. With Sir Nigel dead ensure Brendan Stringer is eliminated, with prejudice.**

**Voice 1: It shall be done my master. And I myself have recorded our list of targets for the time at which Cerberus must be activated. They will be destroyed gradually and slowly; one by one. Target One: Jerusalem – 31.7833° N, 35.2167° E and target two: Mecca – 21.4167° N, 39.8167° E. They will be destroyed and Cooper along with them: tearing down his hope and thus defeating him truly, as per his lineage's honour code. He shall be hated – he who brought your wrath to the world.**

**Voice 2: Cooper never knew and will not know until it is too late, far too late. His time is now limited. He has but a few days I should surmise until he must meet his fate. Unless he is more the coward than I thought when we dispatched his parents and left him snivelling in that house in Brittany. Sent by Interpol to live in a lowly orphanage – a fitting place for him to wait and prepare for his final days. The end of all things is near.**

**Voice 1: And of the Cooper vault? Of the treasure, the true treasure it protects within its deepest reaches? Is that not a possible threat?**

**Voice 2: No. I am happy to leave M to his own devices; after all it was he who finally led me to Connor and his wife, and thus allowed me to complete the stroke of my masterwork. Allow me to complete an ancient ambition which only needed Sly Cooper, the last Cooper to complete it. He may use that how he wishes. He chose his path, a respectable path. No, I have bigger objectives.**

**Voice 1: Right. According to Raleigh's most careful calculations, the Autumnal Equinox shall again occur on the 23**

**rd of September, 2002 – just over two weeks away. If we are to leak information to Cooper then that would be the ideal time at now to initiate Cerberus, when the magnetic and solar polarity is the strongest, but you will do as necessary, my master. That information we planted in Cooper's file at Interpol in Paris may not lure the thief here before he turns twenty-one.**

**Voice 2: I am well aware of our agent within Interpol, King. I may have another soon, who even now – though she may not understand it – lusts for Cooper's destruction. But the targets are all important: other religious monuments and then major landmarks - the Vatican City; Potala Palace; the statue of Christ the Redeemer; and even Angkor Wat, among others.**

**Voice 1: And I have contacted Muggshot and Ruby. Muggshot has already prepared for a massive society ball in just five days, raising revenue and boasting our presence in the stock market in the aftermath of Cerberus; fuelled by the rich and famous idiots of high society. Ruby has also promised to produce an armada the likes of which have not been seen before: an army of ghosts, spirits and phantoms - the amazing influence of celestial phenomena beyond our earth. And thus shall come the inexorable march of the five the world over.**

**Voice 2: Even if the five shall fall, nothing in the end will truly stop me, The Master. And the world will be mine, and mine to rule alone. You have been faithful, King, but cannot rule beside me. You will remain with me if you wish it and aid my war machine – but if you resist, like Cooper, you will be killed. That is the nature of what will be my new world. And the seconds are ticking away slowly but surely for what is left of the old.**

**Voice 1: I shall be loyal, master. And in the culmination of Sly Cooper's final days – no matter what powers try to resist us – I will work to achieve what you have always sort. I can be loyal to your new world, if someday I may avenge or hopefully save my daughter Jing – this is vengeance.**

**Voice 2: Good King, good. That is what I need. Now Sly Cooper draws closer to me, as do many far greater celestial phenomena that will allow me to achieve my greatness and no one shall stop me now. For I am force, I am the master and I am death. It is not long now. And, as St Peter himself said in the Bible – his statement now brought to fruition – the end of all things is truly near.**

**END COMM-SAT SECURE WIRE TRACE E/11A-2**

Henri Braskel stared in all-consuming fear and disbelief; _Jerusalem, they plan to blow Jerusalem – the most holy city of Jews, Christians and Muslims alike – sky high with some apparently geothermal weapon! And as if that weren't enough they will wipe out Makkah when they are done. And all those other monuments besides. It will be an uprising, a military and religious uprising. Possibly, worst of all, a new cold war or even World War III! The United States will again be embroiled in wars in the Middle-East, what with the links to al-Qaeda. This is astronomical, beyond what I reckoned – on a colossal, global scale. And just seven days to put a stop to this impending Armageddon – all hinging on one thief? Yikes!_

Braskel grabbed a slip of paper and sent a fourth and final message whizzing north to the White House in Washington DC. So, at that very moment, officials gathered in the Situation Room beneath the historic building were going berserk. Notes were swapped, heads scratched, computers perused and briefcases opened; all as the president himself was due to arrive at the call of the vice-president. None of them could figure out how on earth this massive scheme had been going on unchecked for so long. And now it was their job to assist the Interpol party in putting a stop to it and saving the free world within just seven days. The same name was repeated again and again on all of their tongues: Sly Cooper.

As Braskel sent messages zooming towards the governments in both Russia and Norway, warning them of the strange activities in the Svalbard Archipelago and the like, he was unaware of Chinese troops who – after having received transmissions from their own government spy satellite – were sent by the Chinese premier himself to storm Wu Shan village in the western Kunlun Mountains. When they arrived, kicking the rotten doors in with a splintering of wood – levelling their M-16 assault rifles at anything that moved – they found the whole place to be empty. There was no trace of anything or anyone at all. So the Chinese government labelled it a red herring and was quick to inform the US government when a message was sent soon after.

Henri Braskel also sent a quick message on its way to Government House in Canberra, Australia; having noticed that the second transcript from the Guild of Thieves had originated from Norfolk Island, lying in Australian waters. But until a long time after that, nothing at all was found – no indication of the mysterious guild appeared.  
Braskel munched down the last bits of his muesli bar and then grabbed his mouse, quickly dragging several icons across his computer screen. There he plonked them all into an e-mail addressed to Inspector Jean Augustus Barkley, chief inspector at the head offices of the French branch of Interpol in Paris and Versailles. They were copies of the PDF documents he had just read, besides some essential notes – notes giving high regard to the fact that Interpol had a rat in its ranks. They must find out who before it was too late. The chameleon decided he would call Barkley a little later, sending him copies of the important documents first.

Braskel leaned over before he was about to send the e-mail and snapped the lid shut on his Apple Mac laptop. It also contained the files and all the other important documents he had been given and would need over these seven days. Need to have any chance at stopping all the plots he had read about. But there were at least two parties involved who had plans depending beyond the outcome of the seven-day machination. Thanks to the information he had been sent, Braskel had unknowingly just been marked as a wanted man by every middle-American criminal cartel there was. At that very moment a Mexican listening post had intercepted Braskel's transmissions, subsequently placing a US $10 million bounty on his head at the order of a high-ranking official. He now had information every lawless and some lawful organisations wanted. Henri Braskel of Costa Rica had just been marked for death.

Braskel grabbed his laptop and placed it on his lap, getting ready to head for the airport. He wanted to be present at the White House, having been the man who uncovered all this. He wouldn't need to call Barkley now; he could just send the e-mail. Barkley would be contacted at the White House and thusly given support from then on. Braskel would be of better use over in the USA now. He also thought of the Santiago Cartel specifically: their interest in Mayan artefacts was disquieting. What was disguised as a mere research expedition by the Canadian government seemed more like some kind of salvation mission. The Canadians likely needed backing from the UN more than ever now. This was getting to be huge.

The chameleon remembered Tulio Sanchez – his scientist friend across the street - , who had told him of the thorium-238. He was an intelligent man; Sanchez could be very useful. Grabbing some extra bills and shoving them into his pocket, now covering two plane tickets to New York and then Washington DC, Henri Braskel leaned forward to send his e-mail to Barkley. Then he would pick up Sanchez and the two of them would hopefully be on the plane before dawn. But just as Braskel made to click down on the mouse, sending the pivotal e-mail, something cold and thin was pressed into his left temple.

"Don't move now Mister Braskel," said a smooth voice, sounding distinctly Russian. "We don't need that message going off into cyberspace anymore. Now keep still and put your hands up – you're covered and no tricks."

Braskel just managed to crack his eyes around and gulped. The gleaming barrel of a lethal Desert Eagle pistol was pointed right at him. And a black-gloved hand held it, holding the trigger back, pointing it right at his head.

**Part 2 of Chapter 16 in Part 2 of 13 Chapters.  
****Sly is no longer the only one searching for his family's great book. Others are out there, and many want him dead.  
****Can Braskel reveal this plot to the world, or will these mysterious organisations succeed in their schemes...  
****Part 3 will be out in about three weeks - also expect other chapter updates, Creative Raccoon.**


	19. Chapter 16 - Part III

**Chapter 16 - Part III: .**

**Author's Note: Sorry for the huge gaps between edits, but here is the complete Part III. I don't know when Part IV will be out, but when it is it will become part of this segment. Chapter 16, conclusion to Part 2, will consist of three parts.**

Snorting like a steam engine, Xavier Night collided with Braskel – head-butting the chameleon in the stomach -, causing him to fall backwards onto the pylon. The case containing his laptop slipped from his grip and clattered between the metal beams, falling onto the lower section of the collapsed tower, which now formed a hollow square-shaped tunnel. Braskel took a stomach-churning look down at the street four floors below, looking at it through the criss-crossed beams of metal making up the impromptu bridge. The case hung precariously between two of these such beams, wedged like a wine bottle's cork. Before he could reach for it, Night snatched him by the collar and hurled him out into the middle of the pylon. Braskel landed with a painful thump, wincing as he got up – massaging his ribs.

Night had by now noticed the case and turned to Braskel, leering horribly. The bat raised both of his blades menacingly, then lunged forwards, making to pin his prey to the metal girders with his shirt lapels. But it was not as easy as that. Braskel rushed at Night and grabbed his left wrist, surprising Night, who tried to nick his fingers with its blade. The chameleon twisted about, swinging himself over the edge of the tower – still clutching Night's wrist – and then back onto it and behind his enemy, as Night tried pinning him with the right dagger. Furious, the bat wheeled about, only to see Braskel slip between the metal beams and retrieve the case.

Though at the wrong end of the bridge, with the UNIS building again at the opposing end, Braskel knew he could outwit Night, who was infuriated by his ducking-and-dodging tactics. Braskel was no Arnold Schwarzenegger, but he kept himself in good shape, good enough to keep ahead of one infuriated mercenary. He scooped up the case and climbed up onto the top of the bridge again. The Apache attack chopper roared overhead, not risking to fire upon the chameleon and thus lose its prize – or alert the authorities too early.

Suddenly, and without warning, the tower jolted beneath Braskel's feet as the east end of it, the end which was wedged under Sanchez's office window, sagged to the left. Mortar and chips of red brick tumbled to the bitumen street nine metres below. Sirens even began to wail in the distance, no doubt alerted by the explosion atop the Interpol building. This did not deter Night though, who ran at Braskel for the third time, both blades pointed at his rib cage. Braskel glimpsed the office window open behind the bat, seeing a shocked and bleary-eyed Sanchez looking out. Realising the source of the commotion, Sanchez's eyes widened with shock, the toucan's mouth dropping open.

Braskel made a hand gesture to him as he was pinned to the girders by Night. The toucan nodded, gazing briefly at the Apache chopper, before he disappeared into his office. Sanchez was the one who could pilot them out of here aboard the UN helicopter on the UNIS building's helipad.

Ignoring the toucan, his only goal being to detain Henri Braskel and his suitcase, Night gestured to the chopper, which hovered in closer as he pinned the chameleon down. Still, he was unconcerned about the police sirens coming nearer. By his reckoning he had won their brief skirmish. _I don't think so,_ Braskel thought. He kicked out at Night's groin region, instead succeeding in winding him, giving him the chance to unpin himself and, pushing past the bat, to rush for the office window that Sanchez had flung open. Incredibly, the Apache began firing upon him as it saw him fleeing with the case. Cleary it was the one of the two the NICE had to obtain.

Tracer bullets sizzled by Braskel in glowing orange trails, pinging off of the brick-walled UNIS building's facade. One such shot cut across his chest and severed his tie. _That was way too close_. The chameleon looked up as there was a loud _SHOOM_, upon which he saw a red sidewinder missile lance out from the helicopter's left missile pod and slam into the helipad above him. Two of its metal struts twisted and contorted, while two more buckled under the weight of the explosion. More orange-and-red fire trails lanced out as a miniature mushroom cloud of flame enveloped half of the helipad. The UN chopper began to slide to the right, before with a loud groan its landing skids jammed against the concrete lip and railing of the building's roof. They were still in the game. _Those nutters – they're trying to cut off our escape. _Braskel skidded around the fragments of metal and concrete that dropped over the building's edge, falling to sizzle on the street.

Lights on almost every floor of every building in the street and beyond were now flicking on. Voices shouted and faces appeared at doors and windows. The Apache chopper wielded about in a full three-sixty degree arc, coming back towards Braskel's pylon bridge, ready to attack again. Four police cars appeared at the right opening to the palm-lined boulevard – lights flashing – and raced towards the UNIS and Interpol buildings. Braskel smiled with relief before he saw Night rear up, having nearly forgotten the bat, and charge him. People were now gathering on the streets below, looking terrified and shocked, but unable to do anything as the Apache soared overhead.

Night swung with a dagger at Braskel, prompting the assembled onlookers to gasp in shock. Then they cheered as the chameleon dodged the blow again, swinging over the edge of the tower, now hanging there. The police cars came to a halt beneath the pylon, trying to form a perimeter, but were rebuffed by the chopper which fired more sidewinders into the bitumen; trying to deter them from interfering but not wanting to kill. This surprised Braskel, but then he remembered Night's previous words: _we look after each other in the NICE.  
_  
Nobody knew what was going on or who the NICE were, so it was safe to make this look like a scene set-up by a local militia group. When Night had left, with the case in his hands, the papers would say the incident was a terrorist attack of some variety. No one would know the truth until it was too late. But Braskel knew otherwise and realised it was pretty much up to him to get out of here. The papers would forget the story quickly once the Cooper Case was brought to their attention. The NICE had their fingers in almost every pie, it seemed – and they were clever enough to keep it that way. _You're playing a dangerous game Henri._

The importance of the information in the case and his own head felt to be burning a proverbial hole in Braskel. They were not safe here anymore. As if to drive the point home, in full view of the police and the crowd, Night sheaved his blades and sliced down at the hanging chameleon using the lethal points on the edge of his armoured wings. He spun around and clanged the left wing against the pylon, creating sparks that made Braskel yelp and release his grip. The crowd screamed as he fell, but roared in jubilation as he snagged a lower beam. Snapping to look up, he witnessed Night lunge out over the edge, swinging right at him, swishing his blade right wing towards the case's handle. This was only blocked by Braskel hurling the case – while maintaining his hold on it – towards his nemesis, reflecting the blow. Night fell backwards but held on. Amidst the roaring assent of the onlookers, Braskel clambered back onto the tower and ran for the window. An elated Sanchez was back at the window. He waved to his friend.

"Over here Henri old man," the toucan shouted. "What on earth is going on and who is that?" He pointed over Braskel's shoulder.

"Who?" Braskel said. He turned around to see Night back on the pylon, sliding his wing tips back and preparing to make another attempt at grabbing Braskel. "Ack," Braskel spat, choking on a blob of saliva. _Doesn't this guy ever give up?_

"This ridiculous game is over," Night hissed, "Your race is run."

"I think you're the one who is finished Night," Braskel replied. "You can't possibly get out of here. Everyone knows now what and who you were after. This end of your operation has failed. How now could you possibly save it still?"

"Why, this worked out exactly as I hoped," Night said. "Everyone will indeed discover what we were after, but they have no idea who we are. As far as Interpol is concerned I am a wraith, almost invisible to the law and attached to no organisation. We have been working in the shadows for a long time. This incident will merely distract your allies long enough for us to further ensure our grip on the situation. They will deduce we are only after Easter Island, which is of course why we let those e-mails be leaked. All the other provide an obscure lead and cannot be followed. You have been deceived. Our plans are not out in the open at all. That is merely their veil."

"What do you mean?" Braskel said.

"That this has been calculated from the start – you swallowed the bait. We seem to be everywhere, having your authorties paralysed. Do they risk taking the island or losing the Interpol team at the hands of the Fiendish Five? If they try and thwart the five, their Master has already threatened global destruction. He will keep them in line until Cooper has readied it to make our move – the thief is who he wants. They worry about the security of Delta-7." As he spoke, Night drew a monstrous mace from a holster on his back – an amalgamation of a sword and club. The crowd roared and booed, but the chopper kept them in line.

"In short, we are slowly causing them to crumble, undermining their foundations, priming for our chance to strike and start afresh. By spreading this paranoia, they think we are everywhere and unstoppable. We have revealed ourselves as an unscrupulous and invisible enemy. Like the Hydra to Heracles, cutting off one head only grows two more. We will adapt!" He raised the mace and walked forwards, taking his time.

"I still don't understand your game, and why you seem to be putting your cards on the table for all to see in plain view," Braskel said, "But I'm going to stop you. Even if, through your deception, you manage to stay one step ahead in this game."

"Hah, you fool," Night guffawed, "You have no idea. Making ourselves apparent has only hammered the nails into your government's coffin. You think you have us right where we should be, but we have _you _in _our _grip. Fighting us on one front, or even two, will only allow us to open up on many more. Now you have allowed us to grow."

"But empires crumble," Braskel said, "And I think you've grown too big for your boots even before you strike. I have a hunch that Sly Cooper will not be so easily drawn into your web. And neither will I – so long, Mr Night." Braskel flashed the case at his enemy and ran for Sanchez's outstretched hands. Night hissed and ran at him, swinging the mace.

"Look out," Sanchez bellowed, as Night sung the mace down on the pylon, denting the girders where it hit – only a foot short of the fleeing Braskel. The crowd cheered again.

"You know we wanted you for one other reason," Night said, charging. "You also invented a second ignition system called the Spear-Head II, based on the infamous invention of Sir Nigel McShellson. We believe the Master is using this against us, thus keeping your allies also inline. If he has used it in a new weapon, we must destroy this defence. For that we need you, while this is also one of the things strengthening our operation. That is why we also need to collapse the Vortex and capture Stringer. But to you and your government, this information will not matter. They already know it and can't do anything about it – they have no choice but to play our game!" He laughed in triumph and launched his mace at Braskel.

"The Spear-Head," Braskel murmured, "Oh, damn. So we didn't see the last of Sir Nigel's old friend Stringer." He had no time to think anything else as Nigh smashed the mace down at his feet. Braskel performed an unintended pirouette, spinning around and back out onto the bridge past Night. Then they faced each other, Night turning: the showdown.

"Standown," a policeman hollered through a megaphone. Two others had piled out of the same car, pointing their pistols upwards. Night quickly gestured to the Apache, which shot a sidewinder at the now empty police car, causing it to explode. The police yelled and dived out of the way. The flaming wreck of the car had now blocked half of the street. The other police men piled out of their cars and hearded the crowd to a safe distance. The threesome from the destroyed car backed off, but began to speak into their radios.

"Fool, all fools," Night declared. He crashed the mace down again, several girders giving way and causing the already rickety pylon to sag more to the right. The whole structure began to twist, scraping off more bricks and cement from both buildings.

He raised the mace high above his head and brought it down, only to be halted by Braskel putting the case between him and the weapon. Night growled and swung again. This blow clipped Braskel's hip and sent him flailing back. Then he jumped back up and lobbed the case at Night's head, giving a blow that made him stagger and drop the mace. It smashed away some of the pylon and crashed down onto the burning police car. The policemen could only stare, powerless to assist the chameleon in his battle.

With a strangled roar, Night made to seize Braskel and yank him bodily off the pylon. Braskel charged to meet him, but the bridge beneath his feet rocked, weakened by the mace, and dramatically twisted, the end against the Interpol building scraping downwards by a full foot. This meant that both men rocked on their feet, the tower juddering. Braskel regained his footing first and swept forwards, able to grab a dagger and whip it out from one of Night's brackets. He pushed it forward, but Night caught his wrist with both hands and twisted it outwards. Braskel yelped and reflexively kicked out with a foot. He caught Night on the shin and the bat released him. The chameleon then rushed him and, seizing Night by the shoulders, pulled himself around his head and onto his shoulders.

Night blinked in surprise then anger, flailing about to shake Braskel off. Braskel snatched his dagger out of Night's fist and brought it up, making to plunge it down over his head… When Night threw himself backwards, hurling Braskel off of him and flinging him through Sanchez's open window. Braskel fell right on top of the toucan, the crowd outside hollering and stamping their feet. Night picked himself up and rushed for the window, but the tower gave a final creak and, with a heart-rending crash, twisted and fell from between the two buildings, where it had been sandwiched.

Night bellowed and flicked his wrists, whereupon two chains shot forth and bit into the window sill – curved hooks were at each end, grappling hooks. He swung off the falling tower – the remains crashing onto the street – and slammed into the building. With venom in his eyes, Night began to claw his way up towards the window where a shocked Braskel and Sanchez were standing. Luckily, the police dove out of the way and no one was harmed by the falling debris. The Apache wheeled overhead and disappeared from view. Night continued his torturous climb up to the sill. The police who had used their radios earlier must have been calling in some back-up, for moments later a heavily-armoured Humvee appeared and a SWAT team armed to the teeth piled out of the back.

"Storm that building and detain anybody who resists," Braskel heard the police chief shout above the din. "And someone get those two men out of there."

"Help is on its way," Braskel sighed in relief, just as Night's head appeared at the window, "But we still need to get out of here – both of us. You'll be in danger for your knowledge Tulio, and I for what's in my case. Anyway, I'm kind of needed at the White House now."

"Right," Sanchez said, holding a stiff upper lip. "I can pilot the chopper. We're going."

Night pulled himself through the window as Braskel and Sanchez ran through the door of the office and fled down the corridor. They barrelled up the staircase that led to the rooftop and the helipad. At the same time there was a loud bang as the SWAT team entered the lobby of the building, evacuating any staff as they went. The ten-man-strong team ran for the stairs and began climbing to the roof.

"You won't escape," Night said, pursuing the pair.

"We'll see," Sanchez yelled at the man whose name he did not know.

The pair burst out of a fire exit door and raced across the rooftop, the city of San Jose spread all around them under the night sky. Sanchez jumped up onto the helipad and pulled Braskel up after him. The crowd on the street, now free of the Apache, had begun roaring again, some of them even chanting Braskel's name. Smiling at this, Braskel followed Sanchez as he yanked upon the cockpit door of the UN helicopter, still hanging on the edge of the roof, and tumbled into it. Sanchez strapped himself him and put on a helmet, while Braskel had also buckled up and now hugged the seat with his hands. The rotor blades whirred and the chopper began to rise. The crowd cheered as they saw the helicopter lifting off, but quickly fell silent as Night erupted out of the fire door. And this time, somehow, Miguel was back with him. Braskel didn't care to know how he got there when he saw what the lynx was cradling: a deadly Uzi.

"This is for breaking my nose Henri," Simon Miguel said, raising the Uzi at the slowly rising chopper.

They were still too low and Sanchez yelled in panic, trying to bring the chopper up to a height of ten feet. Miguel fired the Uzi and a dazzling display of fireworks richoted off the helicopter's flanks. Braskel's window burst like a balloon amid the fire. Large gashes appeared in the paintwork. Still Miguel fired the Uzi, laughing like a maniac.

"Higher, Tulio – higher!" Braskel urged.

"I'm trying," the toucan said, grappling with the steering.

"Remember, they must be taken alive – at least Braskel," Night said to Miguel.

"I'm just teaching them a lesson," Miguel said, "Don't mess with the NICE."

"He's about to shoot out or tail rotor," said Sanchez, "Then our goose is cooked."

"Keep on trying Tulio," Braskel said. "If anyone can pilot this thing, you can."

"Okay," Sanchez winced, smiling weakly.

Then two things happened at once: first, Miguel's Uzi ran out of ammunition – he swore loudly. Secondly, the SWAT team burst out of the stairwell and raised their weapons at Night and Miguel.

"Stand down now" they bellowed. The ten men began to surround Night and Miguel.

"This is our chance," Braskel said. Sanchez nodded and the chopper rose again, now ready to leave the rooftop. Braskel saluted the captain of the SWAT team, who returned the gesture, the helicopter making to leave. Everything was under control; they were safe - or not.

The Apache popped out of nowhere and strafed the roof with tracer fire, forcing the SWAT team to retreat. Night and Miguel grinned then, running forwards under the cover of the Apache's fire, propelled themselves off the roof and grabbed the landing struts of the hovering Apache. They climbed inside as it rose upwards, making ready to pursue the fleeing UN Bell Jet Ranger. The two helicopters raced away above San Jose, beginning a deadly chase. Meanwhile, the SWAT captain looked on with frustration as the choppers disappeared. Luckily, they were all okay, but the attackers had escaped: the target was still under threat. He spoke into his radio and reported the incident. His superiors quickly pinpointed the two helicopters on their radars and made to intercept both and rescue the two fleeing men.

Braskel and Sanchez were still fleeing for their lives, pushing the Bell Jet Ranger to its limits, when a sidewinder shot by them and exploded in mid-air three feet beyond the cockpit. The resulting shrapnel bounced away and along the chopper's body.

"Egad," said Sanchez, pulling the Ranger out of range of the Apache momentarily.

"Hold firm Tulio," Braskel encouraged, flinching at the explosion.

The strangely bulky Apache – a hybrid design that could accommodate two passengers besides its gunner and pilot – launched a new barrage of tracers at them, clipping the tail rotor. The Ranger twirled around, momentarily bringing the Apache back into view, before Sanchez righted it again and managed to rise a few metres. He gunned the engine and they gained some ground of their pursuer. But a second sidewinder finally hit home and sheared off their left landing strut. As the metal beam fell away, Braskel looked down after it and gulped. He clutched the case closer to his chest.

"Even when I was a student of Sir Nigel," Braskel stammered, "I never dreamed that my collaboration with him would bring this upon my head. For all I know they are after his most famous invention – the Spearhead. I never knew what it could do, but I was the only one, beside his close friend and confident Brendan Stringer, who was ever allowed to share in its incredible potential. Even his son never knew. Now I com to think of it, calling my ignition system the Spear-Head II was probably rather foolish. And know this? What have I done?"

"Well, whatever you did, my friend," Sanchez mused, "I'm going to help you protect it. Don't worry, we're in this together. That's why we've been friends since the age of five."

"Thanks Tulio," Braskel said. He was reaching over to grasp the toucan's hand reassuringly when there was a bone-shattering explosion right next to them: a missile had erupted only centimetres from their right flank.

Instantly, the Bell Jet Ranger listed dramatically to the left. But both Braskel and Sanchez broke out into broad grins when they saw what was ahead of them: a line of four UN helicopters had appeared over the horizon. A voice echoed out from the one leading the line.

"We have you surrounded," the voice said. "There are four weapons aimed on your craft and we will fire. Land your craft now – do not attempt to flee or you will be shot down."

"Some good fortune at last," Braskel said. "We can explain that we seek refuge in the United States: that we are now targeted by multiple organisations who would see us killed. This information will finally be where it should be." He rocked the case on his lap.

"I don't know," Sanchez murmured, "This NICE you've mentioned seems like one slippery customer – I don't think they'll give…" The toucan didn't get to finish his sentence.

At that moment, a sidewinder missile shot out from the right pod of the Apache - it slammed into the tail rotor of the Bell Jet Ranger. The propeller housing blew out in a spectacular fireworks display, the mechanism inside it being disintegrated instantly by the flaming eruption. Metallic fragments spiralled everywhere in an apocalyptic display of destruction. Tulio wrested with the controls, but the Bell Jet Ranger began to whirl downwards, the cityscape of San Jose rushing up to meet it.

"Good heavens," said the captain of the lead chopper, "They're going down. Someone apprehend that Apache and do something about those two men." The hedgehog turned to his deputy, a thirty-something hawk with _L. Carrington_ on his lapel tag. "Tell TORNADO and ATLANTIS to pursue and apprehend that chopper Llewellyn. We'll take WIZARD and try to rescue those two escapees. Something is amiss here."

"Roger captain," Llewellyn said. Then, speaking into a microphone, "Choppers two and three, follow that Apache: the captain and I will try and rescue the Ranger."

"Understood," the captain of chopper three replied. "Commencing pursuit."

Two of the black UN craft peeled away, heading towards the Apache helicopter, which was now spiralling about as if making to flee – its target neutralised for the time being. Choppers one and four from the UN cohort soared downwards, chasing after Braskel and Sanchez' wildly convulsing Bell Jet Ranger. A billowing trail of tar-black smoke was issuing from the Ranger, indicating its potentially fatal trajectory. As his craft turned to flee, Xavier Night growled in displeasure. Simon Miguel grunted with apparent satisfaction, following the out-of-control chopper from his window. Night turned to him, irritation in his voice.

"This situation has occurred as we hoped – it will look like a terrorist attack," he said. "But at the cost of that information and the codes – not to mention Braskel being the key to the Spear-Head II ignition system: our strangle-hold with Easter Island, thankfully, has not been compromised here. I did not expect this, but Alpha planned in the case of our failure. This is just a small set-back; we can still make it all work."

"Really?" Miguel said, looking unconvinced.

"Indeed - they'll think they're safe now and Braskel will report about us to Bush, but this won't be the case. Now those fools won't even know which way to turn, what we will do. If anything this may have helped our standing. Beta is still in place: radio the Utah extraction team and tell them to go in."

"Of course," the lynx replied. He activated his radio. "But what of the Interpol front and Sly Cooper. The Vortex is on his tail and I have a suspicion that McShellson is also involved there. I can't tell what the Clockwerk plans, but I also suspect that that Canadian woman Ruth Carlyle may be linked to this, that even the five don't know everything. There's something we've missed – I feel, uneasy..."

"I'm confident we can handle any of that," Night commented. "With our people inside DARPA and the DIA we'll stay one step ahead of the field. Assuming Biggs is successful in interrogating Ivanovo, we'll now require the use of the CEA or Code Encryption Algorithm and with that we can crack Stringer's operation and return to our place in the game. _With that_ we can take-over the Five's power base once Cooper has destroyed Clockwerk for us: he is the pawn and will, as such, be dispatched when appropriate. Sir Nigel will thus be drawn into the open too. And suggest that a team also be sent after the Canadian expedition in Mexico. The free world will have to admit it needs us sooner or later."

"Certainly – and I have seen the formidable use the Contessa has put her CEA to in Prague," Miguel said. "But still, Sly Cooper worries me. At the end of the day the peak of the pyramid, the _magnum opus _of our operation relies on him – a _thief?_ He might well sabotage the Spear-Head and everything else we rely on. We can't afford to play our cards foolishly."

"So we won't, Miguel," snapped Night. "Everything shall be rearranged to fit this situation. But make certain the extraction team goes in now. The rest, Alpha will orchestrate as appropriate. That 'failed' Triads mission in Hong Kong was no mistake at all. Alpha was gathering Intel all along before intending to 'disappear'."

"Alright," Miguel mumbled, not entirely satisfied. "I'll make sure we send out the teams." He began his whispered commands through the radio, which crackled with static.

"Now just to better these ridiculous mercenaries and make good our escape," Night said, sparing a final glance for the plummeting Bell Jet Ranger helicopter – he locked his eyes upon it. "I swear, Henri Braskel of Interpol, this will not be the last time we meet." So the Apache rocketed away from its fallen enemy, pursued by the two UN choppers.

TORNADO and ATLANTIS, the pair of UN choppers, saw the Apache making an attempt to flee and swiftly began their pursuit. It was not long before they had come up on either side of their target. The pilot of ATLANTIS glanced to his right and eyed the cockpit of the Apache – he could see its pilot, an agouti, hunched over his steering yoke. ATLANTIS pulled out a megaphone, addressing the Apache to his right. Simultaneously, WIZARD confirmed missile lock on the Apache. ATLANTIS spoke:

"We have missile lock on you as I speak," he said warningly. "Surrender and land your craft now or we shall be forced to take retaliatory action and fire upon you."

If the pilot of the Apache had taken any notice, he made no sign to indicate so. Instead he only hunched further forwards and revved his engines, bringing the Apache about two metres past the noses cones of WIZARD and ATLANTIS. Sighing, the UN pilot put away his megaphone and radioed his comrades.

"WIZARD," he said, "Target is refusing to cooperate – you have permission to knock out their engines. Make sure they come down safely beyond the city."

"Roger that, ATLANTIS," came the reply, "Launching missiles now."

The helicopter with call-sign: WIZARD gunned its own engines and came level with the Apache. But what neither UN pilot had realised was that Night had meant for this to happen – it was indeed a trap, but not for the intended target. Engines buzzing, the Apache peeled to the left and away from WIZARD. Then it completed a nifty one-eighty degree turn so it now faced its pursuers. A pair of smaller pods sprang from both its flanks, making to fire.

"Oh drat," bawled ATLANTIS, "What are these lunatics doing?"

"I dunno," replied WIZARD, "But keep clear of those pods. We'll try to hem them in."

They were too slow of the mark – as the pilots soon realised – when the Apache launched a tiny metal head from each pod at each helicopter. One of these small but lethal projectiles stuck to the canopy of ATLANTIS, while the other hit that of WIZARD's. Then each projectile exploded – thus surprising the pilots when they did not erupt in fiery clouds of smoke. Rather, each metal head flung forth a formidable cloud of ashen-grey smoke that completely blocked the pilot's vision and the Apache from view.

"What the heck was that?" bellowed WIZARD. He wrestled with his controls, struggling to extricate his chopper from the smoke cloud. He completed a full circle before his canopy began to clear again.

"I have no idea," said ATLANTIS, "But they're gone anyway – it was a distraction. Why in the world these mercenaries or whoever they are didn't just blow us out of the sky I don't care to know." His chopper, too, finally straightened up, it's smoke cloud dissipating.

"Good gravy," WIZARD groaned. "Now they're gone – no use hanging around then. We'd better go and assist the captain. But how can they just disappear?"

"Made for the jungle no doubt," ATLANTIS suggested. "They had at least thirty seconds – then they would have landed and hidden the chopper in the brush. As for the men I have no idea. Anyway, we have something else to address."

"Right," his cohort replied, "Let's go resolve this conundrum." The pair whirled about and zoomed back towards the smoke trail blackening the night sky – the trail indicating the decent of the Bell Jet Ranger.

#

While these things had been sorting themselves out, the world had gone crazy for Braskel and Sanchez – the cockpit was pandemonium, with flashing dials and lights screaming at them all over the dashboard. The fuel gauge had dived to a dangerously low level – courtesy of a puncture taken to the fuel tank – and some of the instruments had begun to smoke ominously. The small space was filled with the acrid smell of burning plastic and rubber. It didn't help when they saw the other landing strut part company with them.

Braskel's world was spiralling out-of-control and he was restraining the urge to vomit. He was beginning to feel dizzy, going cross-eyed as the cockpit spun about him. Sanchez, having faced difficulties akin to this during pilot training, was fairing a little better. But even he was threatening to black out. He grappled with the controls, but with little avail. The Ranger straightened by about ten degrees and continued heading for a patch of dense forest just beyond the outer boundary of San José.

"Can you see those UN guys?" Sanchez asked, his eyes starting to water.

"Uh, yeah – I think so," Braskel said, twisting his neck to peer out his window.

"God almighty," said Sanchez, heaving at the controls, "They are our last hope or we'll be no better than a turkey dinner on Thanks Giving." He couldn't help but smile weakly at his joke. Braskel cracked a smile in return.

"It's been a pleasure my friend – a pleasure." The chameleon patted the toucan on the shoulder. But just when it seemed like it was all over, the Bell Jet Ranger jolted and both men looked up. The steering suddenly calmed and came to rest gently in Sanchez's hands. Both men looked outside in surprise and joy, noticing how their fall had been suddenly arrested: they were descending at a comfortably even pace.

What they witnessed was the other pair of UN helicopters hovering on either side of them, descending along with the Ranger. Each pilot had launched a line, one now attached to the tail rotor section of their Ranger, the other in the middle of the fuselage. Having evened out the balance, thus providing lift to compensate for the lack of fuel and a tail rotor, the UN pilots were able to safely bring the Ranger down in the centre of a stone-paved plaza. The damaged helicopter came to rest with a soft thump beside a fountain in an ornamental garden ringed with flowers, accompanied by the two UN craft that landed with it. Lights were flashing on in windows and a crowd began to form, some noticing the smoke over the other side of the city. They all knew something important had just happened.

Braskel sank back in his seat and groaned, half with fatigue and shock, and the other with great relief: they had been rescued. _The information would be safe now_. As the two other pilots, ATLANTIS and WIZARD, landed, the sergeant from the lead chopper jumped down from his cockpit and sprinted over to the Ranger. He wrenched the door open. As he looked in he was joined by his deputy – a hawk. Braskel and Sanchez could only offer the hedgehog and his accomplice weak, crooked smiles before they scrambled out of their seats. Braskel raised the case, attempting to declare it as the motive for the whole affair.

"What the heck just happened," the hedgehog gasped, goggling at Braskel.

"This happened," Braskel stated, showing him the case. "Our attackers were after the information I have in here." He tapped his forehead with his forefinger – "and what's in here." He handed the case to the hedgehog, who flicked the latches and opened the lid, seeing the laptop inside. He looked back at the chameleon and cocked an eyebrow in confusion.

"What's this about?" he said, looking quizzically from Braskel to Sanchez, his lab coat slightly singed. "Whatever is in this hard-drive must be mighty important. My boys didn't just launch a minor assault on San Jose and chase down an unknown chopper for nothing."

"Llewellyn knows who I am," Braskel said, nodding to the hawk by the sergeant's side. "We've been friends for a while, and we've both been involved with Interpol." He paused to shake hands with Llewellyn, who smiled warmly at his colleague. "And I'm afraid your football trophy got rather dented when I saw the necessity to use it in self-defence, my friend. But I think this case was worth it."

"Oh, think nothing of it," Llewellyn said, waving a hand, "The important thing is that you're safe – and you get to that date at the White House."

"The White House!" the hedgehog exclaimed, "By golly you must be like the Queen of England or something! Who are you?"

"Braskel – Henri Braskel," Braskel said, extending his hand to shake the hedgehog's own, "Cryptographer – code-breaker, electronics engineer, designer and weapons specialist working for Interpol and DARPA. Pleased to meet you."

"Gads," the sergeant said, "I've heard about you – you're that brilliant fellow who invented the Spear-Head II ignition system and Delta-7 weapons system for the United States defence force. I should have known somebody would be after you, though I assumed you were in hiding." He goggled, still clasping the chameleon's hand.

"I was – until now," Braskel said. "I need to get back to the states pronto. We have seven days left before someone unleashes something devastating. And with this case, your government will be one of the few entities still able to do something about it. We need to act for the sake of global security, even beyond the UN. Even if it means assisting Sly Cooper. Whoever this is has got us on their fishing line – no longer can Interpol go it alone."

"Well, I still need proof of your story," the sergeant blustered, "I can't just go busting into Washington just shy of a year after September 11 – we'd be shot down sure as anything."

"Will this do?" Braskel said, removing his passport and an envelope embossed with the American flag. He also flashed a silver badge on the inside of his shirt lapel – it identified him as a scientist and engineer employed by DARPA. But there was one badge he didn't show, tucked inside his other lapel. This badge identified him as an employee for a highly secretive British company few knew about and owned by a man most knew by another name – Braskel called him Nigel personally. The word _InGen _was stencilled there, in bold type.

The sergeant examined Braskel's passport, then opened the letter, skim-reading it. Then he coughed and looked up. "Certainly in order gentlemen – you've got a grade-A certification here from President Bush himself. You're entitled to ride in Air-Force One if you want to, so you'll certainly be allowed to ride in one of my choppers. If you say we've got seven days, then I believe you – come with me gentlemen, a new player is here."

Braskel, Sanchez and the sergeant, who identified himself as a Mr Wilbur Post, strode back towards the UN choppers, accompanied by Llewelyn. Several SWAT vehicles had already arrived to pick up the mess and reassure the gathering throng of people. Sanchez showed his passport to Post as they climbed aboard a helicopter, which was accepted with an airy wave – to Post, any friend of Braskel he could trust, anyone who had a certificate from the President himself! Then they lifted off again and were away, headed for what might be the biggest ordeal any of them had ever faced. So, as the UN helicopter fleet headed north, leaving San José, nobody noticed a fourth mysterious figure concealed in the bell tower of a church on the square. The figure whispered into a radio, eyeing the disappearing convoy.

_Everything is now as it should be, our board set – the game is afoot…_

**Part III of IV in Chapter 13 of 13 - Part 2 of 6.**


End file.
